Storm
by Neoinean
Summary: Methos and Joe get snowed in at the bar on Thanksgiving.
1. Prologue: Disjointed musings

Universe: A virtual "6th" season wherein "Modern Prometheus" was the finale of season 5 and ignores all events in the "real" season 5 finale and all of season 6, as well as the last movie. This season takes place 1997-1998 

Summary: Methos and Joe get snowed in at the bar over Thanksgiving.

Disclaimer: If I owned them why would I waste my time posting to fanfic sites? I'd be off making lots and lots of money! But since I'm not, I therefore don't, nor do I pretend to.

* * *

It was bitterly cold, surprisingly so for late November in Seacouver. Methos had the heat in his Range Rover cranked to full blast as he traveled the mostly deserted streets. He was tired, having just flown back from Geneva and the Watcher headquarters. 

However, it wasn't just the hours of travel and jet lag that made him weary. This meeting of 'Methos researchers' had been a harrowing one. Many questions and speculations regarding the alleged oldest immortal had been raised that made the real Methos feel dreadfully uncomfortable. When Don was alive those discussions were always perfectly stuffy and scholarly. Now… Now it seemed that even the watchers were looking for the world's oldest living man to have all the answers concerning life, the universe, and everything. Their speculation on religion was almost comical, but some of their suppositions on indo-European history made Methos shudder with long-repressed memory no matter how untrue those suppositions were.

Now Methos was back from Geneva, hating the cold and longing for warmer climes. He was physically tired and mentally drained, not liking that his innermost walls were once again recognized by his conscious mind. It wasn't that they were ever in any danger of cracking, but Methos preferred that he never even remembered their existence. Most days it worked, and all things concerning his life before entering the game remained safely hidden even from himself. He cursed himself, blaming the straining events of the past year for his weakening resolve.

With a hard squint and a shudder he banished those thoughts from the front of his mind, choosing instead to focus on his current situation. It was just after nine p.m. on Thanksgiving day, and everyone who was traveling had already reached their destinations, filled with the varying degrees of happiness and tension that surrounded such enforced holiday family gatherings, and of course, with copious amounts of food.

Thanksgiving was an amusing holiday to those on the outside, the ones who don't make a habit of celebrating it. For Methos it was just another day of the three-sixty-five, nothing special for him to observe. To keep his thoughts on the present he tried and then discovered with some amusement that he couldn't recall exactly where he was in the 1620s. He had been in Paris playing chess with Darius around the turn of that century and so surmised that during the famed pilgrim feast he was off getting sloshed in some other region of that country. Italy had been the 1630s, and he remembered that time with a wince and a shudder.

No, Methos was not one to observe such a frivolous holiday by choice. He didn't have any Scrooge-esque hatred of the American kickoff of the holiday season, nor did he adopt the Charlie Brown philosophy of morose protests of the rank consumerism and commercialization of a once-sacred hotbed of tradition (though the comparisons of the infamous peanuts character to a certain Scotsman was enough to make Methos laugh aloud, which then caused him to momentarily debate whether or not he took the role of Linus or Snoopy, and the chuckle turned into an outright guffaw as he pictured Amanda as Lucy). The momentary amusement passed as the next light turned and Methos resumed his journey.

"Ok, _pilgrimage_," he amended through the death of his laughter.

What an amusing lot, the pilgrims, Methos continued to muse. Kicked out of Holland for their puritan beliefs to settle in the so-called 'new world.' Methos had to laugh at that: he'd seen the 'new world' centuries before. To add a few more shades of amusement, the pilgrims landed several hundred miles off course and then had to put up with a brutal New England winter. Idly Methos wondered if the current denizens of Plymouth had such cold weather to deal with this Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving: a time of giving thanks. A time of gathering with loved ones to give thanks for 'fill-in-your-blank-here'. It was a millennia-old tradition that somehow seemed to resurface every so often in various cultures across the globe. Methos had partaken of such rituals whenever he found himself an actually functioning member of the given society (as opposed to a disinterested shadow lurking unnoticed within its walls). These were usually the times he had chosen to take a wife. That had been... sixty-seven--no, sixty-eight times. Sixty-nine? _Oh crap!_

One thing Methos hated was losing track of his wives. He clearly remembered being married to each and every one of them, though as years passed he lost track of which century they came in and what order he married them in, using only convenient historical occurrences to mark the passage of time, since the civilized world had the annoying habit of restructuring its calendars every few centuries anyway.

Several minutes and a litany later Methos had successfully recalled sixty-eight names. Although he wondered about the sixty-ninth that somehow struck chords within his brain, he couldn't associate a name or a face to this aimless memory. Eventually he dismissed the thought as one of his more influential romantic entanglements that hadn't ended in marriage. There were more of those than Methos could recall at any one time, but anything to make the progression of red lights more bearable.

Eventually he recalled forty-three more names and an astonishing number of faces. He knew that should he desire he could look them all up in his journals (although most of those were safely squirreled away in various corners of the globe), but there was no sense in dwelling on lost memories. Not when one has the present to think of.

Then, unasked for and unhindered, memories of a year ago flooded his brain. Alexa. They had been in Santorini last November, towards the end of her life. She was American and insisted on celebrating the holiday, to 'introduce' it to her British lover.

Maybe dwelling on the past isn't so bad…

Tried as he might, Methos couldn't expel the depressing thoughts from his mind. This was the real reason he never bothered with observance holidays anymore. What did he have to give thanks for anyway? Sixty-eight buried wives, only twenty-three of which survived to old age. How many other friends and lovers has he buried? He shuddered to think of counting such a number, but knew that in the last page of each journal such totals were calculated. All he had to do was envision the pages and do a little math…

_NO!_

Methos hated this holiday with the same abstract vehemence with which he's hated other similar holidays down through the ages. How can one be thankful when all your loves and friendships invariably end in death? And when you are the oldest human being on the face of the planet, and had been for more years than you'd like to think, the word 'invariably' is rigid and non-negotiable. He had always shied away from celebrating them, despite the constant invitations of the friends he'd made along the way, preferring instead to get very, very drunk toasting half remembered people and ideals long buried.

The sinking realization that Methos had been fighting ever since Bordeaux was threatening to overtake him again, yet even this was the better thought than what was in his mind when he left Geneva, so he went with it.

In a very brief expanse of time he had lost most of the people he'd ever chanced caring about down through the ages. There the harsh yet expected passing of Alexa, and survival for a time was solely for the preservation of her memory. Then in one fell swoop MacLeod had removed himself from the picture, after eliminating Kronos and Caspian (Silas Methos couldn't blame on MacLeod although he tried to for some time). MacLeod's departure also successfully removed Amanda by default (Methos knew that if it had come to it she would have chosen the Scot without hesitation--MacLeod wasn't someone you could choose another over. He had learned that lesson, painfully, for himself. What surprised him was that he found himself caring about it). Joe tried to refuse to choose sides, and he knew that the watcher would bitterly resent being forced to because he would have to choose MacLeod, as they all do. So Methos removed the element of choice and disappeared for a while.

That brief separation was one of his most lonely times in recent memory. _Recent memory?_ Methos cursed himself for the qualification.

Then he remembered Keane, when Amanda goaded him into involvement. Nothing had been resolved, and Amanda was ignorant of the whole situation (he knew this because he knew that Amanda would have confronted him about it). The aftermath of Bordeaux and all that went unresolved still continued to spread through his life like a stain. He hadn't wanted to reenter their lives so soon anyway.

Then, as if to add insult to injury with his relationship to MacLeod, he had to let the arrogant Highlander kill Byron. Standing aside to let the Katana of Justice pass was nearly as painful as turning his sword against his beloved Silas. _My poor, sweet, beautiful, tragic Gordon. Your soul, I fear, was even older than mine._ Another audible curse in a long-dead language escaped his lips in the vague direction of Queen Victoria, Charles Darwin, Karl Marx, and all the rest who conspired to make the perfect half-century for him to wallow in torrents of self-pity, yet sealed the doom of his beloved student. Idly he wondered if any immortals ill-fated enough to be a product of that time were still alive.

With Byron dead the tension between Methos and Duncan hadn't eased any, and now Amanda suspected a falling out between them, but for the first time Methos found himself praising Duncan's sense of honor: he knew he would never betray such secrets without permission, not even to Amanda. He was just thankful that while Richie may be perhaps the most perceptive to shifts in the Highlander's moods, he respectfully declined questioning it, at least to Methos, even when he chanced to visit him at Rainier last month before his sojourn to Switzerland.

Then there was Joe. Joe he had known for over ten years, which was rather remarkable from a mortal standpoint. They were both good friends of Don Salzar. Another thought that made Methos involuntarily shudder. He had offered his head to MacLeod when they had first met to insure that Kalas was defeated. He did it for Don. He did it for Fitzcairn and for MacLeod. He did it for, well, himself. As a way to end his existence. It was a noble cause, backing the boy scout. He could 'live' with the knowledge that his quickening would serve to strengthen Duncan's. Duncan hadn't realized then what such a gesture was, coming from Methos. Methos idly wondered if it had ever dawned on him, and then violently shoved the pain of possibility from his mind.

The thought returned to the ether from whence it came, but the residual pain did not. Some thought had to surface to justify such a feeling, and in hindsight Methos wished he could have kept his thoughts on Duncan's fight with Kalas for the happy ending that ensued despite the rough road to it. He too had known Fitzcairn, but in another life, and well before Duncan's birth. He did not dare confess to Duncan that he too would be morning his passing. No one could pack away a pint like Hugh Fitzcairn.

He also wished more deeply than in recent months that MacLeod had actually taken his head that night. He also wished that he had let Cassandra take it in Bordeaux. How could he muse on all he has lost without his thoughts returning to the horsemen again and again?

He had to admit that he was shocked to discover an errant tear when he learned of Caspian's death, in spite of all that had just occurred. It seemed a vile, sacrilegious thing considering the news accompanied the revelation that Duncan was still alive. He hadn't cried when he thought the Highlander dead, but then he wouldn't have given Kronos the satisfaction anyway.

Or was the tear one of happiness for MacLeod's against-all-odds survival? Methos honestly couldn't either remember or decide what had caused the brief breakthrough of his defenses and settled on preferring it that way.

Of course the thought that he forced himself to keep hidden was the fact that he knew he couldn't avenge Duncan even if he wanted to, because in that moment he couldn't bring himself to raise a blade against his brothers, not even for the Highlander's sake. The sake of a man for which he was willing to die but not to kill? Was _that _the real reason he challenged Keane?

No, he could kill for Duncan. Kristen proved that. Jacob Galati proved that. He just couldn't kill his brothers for him. That was entirely different. _Right?_

But that's exactly what he had done. He left MacLeod to fight Kronos, silently praying to every deity he could think of as he scurried off seemingly to do Kronos's bidding that the Highlander could defeat him. It was as the man himself had said, Methos couldn't (_wouldn't?_ _Is that the same?_) defeat Kronos, but had hoped the Highlander could.

What he could do was defeat Silas. Was that for MacLeod? For Cassandra? To prove to them that he had changed? Honestly he couldn't recall his thoughts or emotions in that moment, surprising himself more than Silas when he turned his Ivanhoe in challenge.

Secretly Methos knew why. He couldn't let Silas live if he had doomed Kronos to die. Silas had been his favorite. Well, that wasn't exactly true, but their relationship was never at any point anything less than an easy, unassuming camaraderie. Kronos was demanding and sometimes more suspicious than Methos himself, and trusting the man with his head for centuries didn't make him _trust _him any more or any less. Caspian he just flat out didn't like the way quarrelsome siblings say that 'hate' each other and convince themselves they really mean it. Methos knew that he would take the happy memory of Caspian's Hittite army with him to the grave.

Methos mused that if there were ever going to be Horsemen of the Prevent-The-Apocalypse, Duncan would be their leader. Methos dubbed him 'Honor'. Clad in a kilt he would wield the Clan MacLeod sword. The katana had too much ill-spilt blood on it to fit the role properly. It was a part of MacLeod, a part of every part of him, including the dark side he forced into submission in that well in the wilderness outside Paris. MacLeod was content to deny its existence for most of the time and Methos was content to let him, secretly envious of the ability.

To escape the torrent of painful memories Methos expanded on the idea, casting Amanda as Beauty, Richie as Innocence (because Naiveté didn't sound too flattering), and Joe as Friendship (because Mortality wasn't too pleasant, either). Death desperately wanted a seat at that table, having forsaken his brethren of millennia to chance at being a part of it. But the four were already chosen. The table was full. Methos was left out in the cold. Alone. With nothing to show for his efforts to bring down his brothers for the sake of some nameless Greater Good that he could only trust to MacLeod's belief in.

_And this self-pity was hardly like him. He really should stop that..._

And then Keane, when Methos couldn't make things right. Why couldn't MacLeod just see that Methos's intentions never wavered from the moment they met: _keeping your arrogant, self-righteous, brooding Scottish ass alive!_

First Keane then Byron. Did Duncan see? Did he appreciate what Methos allowed to happen? My poor Gordon. _Don't you know that I would have protected you from anyone but Duncan Holier-Than-Thou MacLeod?_

_They're not yours, Doc. You're a loner, just like me._

"SHUT UP!"

Methos was startled to hear his own voice. He tried to remember who he was arguing with and the part of his brain that wasn't running away from the truth chalked it up to too many quickenings residing in his skull and musing that he was no longer able to tell if sudden surges of memory were truly his or borrowed from one of his residents.

The morbid ramblings kept tumbling through his mind in a scattered cacophony of images: Alexa, Byron, Caspian, Kronos, Silas. All five he had either failed or betrayed to death (not retrieving the Methuselah stone for Alexa was still a painful blow). Going back further he had mourned Darius, unable to show his face because he was a watcher, part of the organization that had killed probably the wisest of immortals. He had also mourned Rebecca, even though he guessed that she never truly forgave him. He wondered if Amanda knew that story, but he doubted it. It happened over two thousand years before she was born, anyway.

So many friends dead in so few years. _Old _friends. It was sure a record for him.

As he drove, now absently as he had forgotten his destination in the whirlwind of thought, emotion, and memory, he tried to guess at who his current friends were.

"Whom else can I bury?" he thought with more than a fair share of sarcasm. Suddenly he knocked on the wood paneling of his car's interior and wondered if Murphy had been immortal.

Things still weren't right with MacLeod, although their collective ability to just pretend that nothing had happened was steadily improving. That's something, right? Richie was ever curious but retained the decency to never ask. Methos was grateful for that as for some reason he found himself consciously interested in forming an actual friendship with the young immortal. He wondered if it was a deliberate jab against MacLeod, and knew that if push came to shove it would be an unnecessary moral dilemma for the kid if Methos were to inadvertently (_or advertently? Is that even a word? Why I never studied English…_) force him to choose MacLeod as he knew he would. None of this was fair to Richie, so Methos kept a respectable distance (although the fact that Richie had deliberately sought out his help with his ancient history class was touching).

Then there was Amanda. If the boys were fighting she'd take off. Natural for her to do so, to never get her hands dirty. (_That isn't fair and you know it!_) Whatever the problem was between them, she rightly guessed that it was none of her business and left it up to them to make amends. After forcing Joe and MacLeod to reconcile after Charlie's death, she must have decided to not push her luck.

Ah, Joseph. The last. Methos wondered if it was his mortality that made him deliberately try not to harbor grudges. Or perhaps it was his mortality in the face of so much immortality. Regardless, it didn't really matter. The watcher had tried his damnedest to 'forgive' Methos his crimes. Some days he wasn't sure if he'd succeeded totally, but still the conscious effort was there. Joe must realize that he has more days behind him than in front and to not waste any of them with petty conflicts. When you're mortal and dying the slow death of time and all of your friends could be beheaded and gone tomorrow, all conflicts that stand in the way of true friendship are petty. Even the matter of the horsemen.

Somehow Methos knew that Joe felt that way, even if Joe wasn't so sure of it himself. Perhaps that's why Methos found his SUV parked across the street from Joe's bar. He hadn't even realized he'd driven there, nor that he'd pulled over to the side of the road. As he shifted the car into 'park' and turned off the engine he wondered how much gas he'd just wasted while his mind decided it was too preoccupied to drive.

Suddenly he wondered why there were lights on in Joe's bar on Thanksgiving. Mac and Richie were in New York celebrating with Connor and Rachel. He hadn't been invited, but he was certain that Joe had been. Mike would either be in Oregon or have his family visiting, so it wasn't him either. If Joe didn't go to New York then surely he would have gone to Chicago to be with Lynn Horton and her new husband. Then a sudden thought occurred to him:

"Could Joe be spending the holiday alone?"

With his sister dead, spending the holidays with his late brother-in-law's family must be a trifle awkward for the watcher, all things considered. He had gone to the wedding last September, so perhaps he wasn't anxious to return to such a situation so soon. If that was the case, Methos silently chided him for that. His biological family deserved the same consideration as his immortal family.

But if so, then why wasn't he in New York? Connor and Rachel, Duncan and Richie. _Ahh, so obviou_s. Father and daughter, father and son. The Clan MacLeod through and through. No interlopers welcome (at least from the perspective of said interlopers).

So Joe was spending Thanksgiving alone. It must hold some sad significance since he was an American and therefore expected to celebrate the holiday. Methos laughed to himself, surprised by the amusement present in it. He removed the keys from the ignition and stumbled from the car into the frostbitten night air, determined not to let a friend spend this holiday alone.

All contemplations of whether the motivations were altruistic or selfish (_did **he **really want to be alone?_) were forgotten as the wind seared all exposed flesh. Grumbling about it having been warmer in Geneva he shoved his hands in his pockets and headed for the front door of the bar.


	2. Ch 1: Words

Joe was sitting at one of the booths in the back of his closed and therefore deserted bar. The sound system was serenading him with deep, soulful blues riffs from some unknown band's collection of acoustic guitars. A half-finished bottle of beer was keeping company with several empties as they tried to stay afloat in the sea of papers that successfully blocked out much of the tabletop. 

With a now-dull pencil in hand and a business ledger and calculator standing at the ready, Joe was pouring over the latest fiscal year's financial records for his humble place of business. Recently, the notoriety of the bands he was booking were bringing in record crowds, and business was up considerably. However, the more money the bar made, the more hassle and paperwork its owner had to fill out. Dancing around city, state, and federal income tax forms was hard enough for a normal small business owner, making sure absolutely nothing was traceable back to the Watcher Network added entirely new levels of headache to the task.

Joe had respectfully declined each offer for Thanksgiving dinner he had received, telling Mike, his other colleagues, and Duncan MacLeod that he was spending the holiday in Chicago with his late sister's family. He of course told Lynn that he was spending it in New York. Everyone who cared was convinced that he had a family gathering welcoming him tonight, and so no one was worried about him.

He told himself that he declined the offers so that he could use the rare span of free time to take care of the business end of the bar, such as these financial dealings, the inventory and ordering of supplies, booking bands, and massive cleaning to prepare for the upcoming annual board of health inspection. He also told himself that the reason he didn't tell anyone his true plans for the holiday was because he didn't want his friends and family fussing over him and reminding him of the importance of family. He told himself that he didn't need to celebrate Thanksgiving, he'd missed more than a few of them with his combined time in Vietnam, the Watcher Academy in Geneva, and while watching the various immortals he's been assigned to over the years when they weren't living in the U.S. or Canada.

The thoughts he wasn't allowing himself to think centered around the real reasons, of course. He couldn't spend the holidays with his sister's children because of James. After all, he'd shot James with intent to kill. It didn't matter that he didn't succeed. How could he face the children of the man he tried to kill in cold blood? Or even worse, for revenge?

Of course he could have easily flown to New York with Duncan and Richie. In fact, if Connor and Rachel had decided to fly to Seacouver he probably would have been convinced to attend dinner with them. But it wasn't in Seacouver. It was in New York at Connor's townhouse. As Duncan's watcher, Joe just didn't feel right in attending, no matter how welcome they professed he was. He would feel like an outsider accepting the charity of the Clan MacLeod, and Joseph Dawson did _not _need anyone's charity!

Subconsciously he rubbed one thigh at that thought.

Joe was sitting in the booth, totaling up his yearly expenses by category, when suddenly the front door swung open. He distinctly remembered locking that door after he came in, and he grabbed his automatic pistol from its holster sitting in the booth next to him. He flicked the safety off and pointed it at the door.

"Is that how you greet your friends on holidays?" Methos asked when he found himself with a gun pointed at his head. He slammed the door against the bitter cold without taking his eyes off the man and his gun.

"Jesus Christ, old man!" Joe exclaimed as he restored the safety on his pistol and put the weapon down. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Nice to see you, too," Methos replied flippantly.

Joe sighed. "What are you doing here?" he repeated, kindlier this time.

"I could ask you the same question," Methos returned.

"That door was locked." Joe was fully aware he was changing the subject.

"Oh, right." Methos turned and re-locked the door.

As much as Joe tried to be angry at this surprise and uninvited visitor, one look at Methos conveying the easy shy awkwardness of Adam Pierson as he waited for the bartender to invite him in was enough to break his resolve. He shook his head with a laugh. "Get you a beer?"

"That'd be great," said Methos, smiling. He followed the watcher to the bar, and taking a stool down from its resting place, melted into the cushion in his usual fashion. Joe filled a glass with some random draft and handed it over to the immortal. "Thanks."

"I suppose I should go grab mine," said Joe as he made his way back to the booth. He returned a moment later with his bottle. "So when did you get in?" he asked as he returned to his preferred spot behind the bar.

"Just this evening," Methos answered after taking a long sip of his beer.

"And how was 'business'?" Joe's question was laced with amusement. He knew Methos hated being called back to Geneva.

The immortal's eyes darkened considerably at the question. "I really hate these annual meetings, Joe," he said sourly. "Why the Powers That Be decided that my researchers need to meet and discuss once a year is beyond me."

Joe shrugged. "I guess they want to make sure everyone's making progress."

Methos laughed, but Joe caught the resentment in the amusement.

"Progress indeed," Methos scoffed. "The only real progress we made was in verifying that-that _poser _last yearwasn't really me."

"I thought that was already agreed upon?"

"It was, for the most part. There still were a few believers in the ranks, though, until Rothman pulled out something that the Chinese had been sitting on. Turns out he was a viking named Skalf and he'd been impersonating me for three hundred years."

Joe got the distinct impression that Methos was secretly disappointed by this. How convenient would it have been to convince the world that 'Methos' was really dead? Of course, allowing the world to think that one Richard Ryan was now carrying the quickening of the world's former oldest immortal would hardly earn Methos any favors.

"Really? And where did 'Adam Pierson' stand?"

Methos flashed a smug little smirk. "Adam has always agreed with Don on the matter. No immortal as old as Methos ever reveals their true identity to the masses at random."

Joe nodded. He'd expected as much. "Especially those who've managed to learn about and then evade the watchers for years?"

Methos's smile was pure innocence. "Like I'd give the others away."

"So there _are _others!"

"You believe what you like, Joseph," Methos said cryptically. Joe knew that the old man wasn't about to reveal anything more on the subject.

"What exactly do you _do _for the Methos chronicles anyway?" he asked instead.

"Mostly I try to verify other's research--their translations mostly. If they think they've got a lead on Methos I check it out for them."

"So you debunk them."

"Not as often as you'd think," Methos admitted. "Last year they got a line on me in ancient Rome. I verified that I was senator for a time."

"Were you?" Joe asked suspiciously.

"Of course not, but what's wrong with a little resume padding?"

Joe laughed. "Let me guess, you were the senator's brew-master?"

This time Methos laughed. "Why brew it yourself when you can have others brew it for you?"

"And I'll bet you mooched off some bartender friend back then, too."

"Didn't have to. Caesar provided all his servants with all the alcohol they could drink."

"You didn't serve Caesar," Joe dismissed.

"Sure I did," Methos defended. "I was his personal bodyguard for a time."

"Hell of a job you did, too."

"Hey!" Methos protested. "I'll have you know I died in the line of duty a whole eight months _before _that happened."

"No kidding?" The seriousness with which Methos defended his claim made Joe start to believe that the man wasn't lying about this.

"Yeah. Took an arrow in the chest on the road from Gaul."

"Ouch."

Methos half shrugged, as though that particular death was of little consequence. "We were ambushed. I managed to kill… quite a few of them before one of their archers got lucky. Lived just long enough to die in Caesar's arms."

"You're shitting me." Joe still wasn't totally convinced that the immortal was telling the truth.

"I most certainly am not! I hammed up my death scene quite a bit, too. Told Caesar to take care of my wife and everything."

"Wait, you were _married_ too? This just keeps getting better and better!"

"Her name was Lenora."

"Wow," Joe breathed, shaking his head with a smile. "I never would have guessed that."

"Haven't you learned not to underestimate me yet?" Methos asked, returning the smile.

"Yes, and that's why I'm skeptical." They both laughed at that. Then: "Wow, that must have been hard on her." Joe watched the smile fade from Methos's face, the humor in his eyes replaced by something else, wistful nostalgia maybe, colored by a long-forgotten pain.

"I bet it was," he said softly after a moment's pause. Then he shook his head as if to clear the memories and when he looked over to Joe his expression had changed completely. "Well, what's it take to get a refill around here?" he asked impatiently.

Joe took and refilled his glass, knowing it was wiser to just let the conversation drop. Methos had uncharacteristically chosen to volunteer a portion of his past, and Joe was both lucky and thankful for it. He knew that the immortal wouldn't divulge any more because the memories had just become too painful, and Joe knew better than to ask.

The conversation lapsed into silence. Methos nursed his beer while Joe wiped down a spotless bar. Eventually they both decided to end the silence before it became overbearingly awkward. However, they chose to reclaim conversation at the exact same time, which caused them both to be reduced to the godsend of tension-relieving laughter.

"You were saying?" Joe asked, getting the better of himself quicker than his companion.

"No, no," Methos dismissed. "You first, I insist."

Joe grabbed himself another bottle of beer and snapped the top off. "So what brings the oldest living immortal to my doorstep on Thanksgiving?"

Methos genuinely shrugged. "I was looking for a good brew."

"Don't you know most places are closed on Thanksgiving?"

"I don't celebrate Thanksgiving, and I just flew in from Geneva, where they don't celebrate Thanksgiving. How was I supposed to know what day it was?" Methos knew his lie wasn't convincing, even if the logic behind the statement could have been. The elongated glance he earned from Joe signaled that his story hadn't been wholly believed.

"What do you have against Thanksgiving?" Joe asked at last. "You eat lots of food, drink lots of beer, and watch lots of football. Sounds right up your alley."

Methos nodded slightly, thoughtful. "What about the enforced enduring of one's extended relations?"

"Well there is that," Joe conceded.

Methos then saw his opening. "Is that why you're sitting alone in your empty bar keeping company with your tax records?"

Joe tensed. The conversation wasn't supposed to shift around to him. "It's a rare moment when I can close the bar and get some actual work done."

"I see," said Methos, nodding in feigned understanding. "Pity they just happen to coincide with those rare moments where you're expected to spend time with your family."

Joe recoiled slightly, not liking this conversation turn at all. "I was never very good at stuffy social encounters," he said dismissively, busying himself with continued bar scrubbing.

"Yeah, I know," said Methos, once again with enough feigned understanding to lure Joe into false security. "That's why you didn't MC the Watcher year-end party three years in a row."

Joe didn't know whether or not it was Methos's exact deflations of his obvious lies or the simple smug look that the immortal was wearing that caused him pound the bar rag into the bar. The sudden vehemence of anger made Methos jump more so than the sudden pounding.

"Dammit Methos! What the hell do you want from me?"

Methos flinched a bit at the outburst, and then seemed to shrink back into himself. Shoulders rounding, head bowed, hands drawing together atop the bar. He was Adam Pierson again, shy grad student extraordinaire. "I just want to know why you're spending the holiday alone," he answered in the sincerest voice Joe had ever heard the man use. His anger softened into bitter resentment.

"Alone here or elsewhere, makes no difference," Joe said, turning his back so as to pretend he was wiping the grill. "Here at least I'll get some work done."

Methos nodded, his suspicions confirmed. Adam Pierson retreated back into the ether, his purpose served. "I know why you didn't go to New York," he said at last. Joe stopped wiping the spotless grill and stood motionless. "The Clan MacLeod can be a very closed society." Joe said nothing so Methos pressed further. "A father in his own house, with daughter, brother, and nephew. No amount of invitation could make an outsider feel welcomed there."

Perhaps it was the truth to the statement, or perhaps it was the kindred loneliness Joe heard in Methos's voice, but he turned around to face the immortal at last. "They invited you too, didn't they." It was a statement, not a question, and carried all of Joe's hopes at finding a kindred spirit.

Thus Methos's baldly stated "No" left him blinking in surprise.

Joe stopped his current pity train in its tracks. It never even occurred to him that Methos would have nowhere to spend the holiday.

"What do you mean, no?"

"I mean no, they did not invite me." Methos was gone again, and Adam Pierson sat, stiffly hunched over the bar, gazing into the shrinking head on his beer. Joe tried to search for the right words, but found none. "It's no big deal," Adam said dismissively without looking up. "It's not like they thought I'd be back in town or anything."

"Don't you have anywhere to go this evening?" Joe asked at last.

"I said it wasn't a big deal, Joseph. I don't celebrate this holiday, remember?" Adam had shifted out and Methos was back again. Joe wondered if Adam appeared when Methos's defenses were down or if Methos appeared as Adam's defenses. In a way both seemed true.

"Yeah, but food, alcohol, football, fellowship," Joe stammered. "Even _you _must want those things at least once a year. Why not on the day when everyone else is pursuing them?"

Methos sighed. "Yes, Joe. Why not?" His gaze was fixed and pointed, and Joe felt like he'd just been played. His anger returned all the sharper.

"You know perfectly well why not."

Methos arranged his face into the perfect semblance of Adam's confusion. "You mean about why you didn't go to Chicago?"

Joe wasn't falling for it. Methos and Adam were the same person and he should start treating them as such. "Lynn's father is dead because of me, because of MacLeod. Murderers aren't welcomed at the dinner table." If Joe had been thinking more clearly he would have chosen his words better. Anger and alcohol would do that to a person.

"No, your brother-in-law is dead because of Darius." Was that Methos or Adam Pierson? Joe honestly couldn't tell.

"Darius wouldn't have wanted vengeance," he said weakly. It was a poor argument.

"MacLeod did," Methos countered. "And you wanted vengeance for MacLeod."

"Mac did what he needed to do, to protect the immortals from us."

"And you did what you need to for the sake of the watcher creed."

"Tell that to Jacob Galati," Joe said with finality.

Methos pushed back from the bar and sat up straighter. He didn't expect this turn, but that didn't make it impossible to deal with. "Jacob was killing watchers the way Horton was killing immortals. Both needed to be stopped."

"You and Mac were right, I led Galati to his death. How many other immortals have died because I broke my oath?"

The amount of guilt and self-loathing in Joe's voice surprised Methos, but he had the best retort.

"What would have happened to MacLeod if you hadn't?"

"Mac can take care of himself."

"And Richie?"

Joe sighed heavily. Richie still owned Joe's most direct interference in the game to date. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. "Horton tried to shape the game the way he saw fit and many people died. How is they way I've lived my life any different from that?"

This time Methos sighed. Joe had been spending entirely too much time around the Highlander lately. "Easy," he answered. "Intent."

Joe regarded the immortal critically for a moment, prompting Methos to continue.

"Horton wanted to rid the world of immortals. You're helping MacLeod to rid the world of evil. Don't feel guilty about Horton's death. MacLeod wouldn't have killed him if he wasn't evil."

Joe wasn't buying it. "He broke his oath and I broke mine. How the hell could I judge him to die for crimes I myself have committed?"

Methos broke eye contact, but covered it by taking a sip of his beer. Those sentiments were hauntingly familiar. But if a good offense was the best defense... "Is that why you were willing to let the watchers execute you?"

Joe was stunned to silence. The conversation wasn't supposed to come back to this. He needed a hasty retreat from it and chose anger.

"What the hell would you know of it?" He snapped, and Methos nearly laughed at the audacity of the question. He was all set to remind Joe of exactly how he knew but the watcher cut him off. He was quite tired of the old man's tricks. He wasn't MacLeod. He didn't need to be lead down some path towards self-discovery. He wasn't in the mood to rediscover his inner self-worth after some slight promptings from the world's oldest man. There was no harm in his feeling guilty over this; it wouldn't cost him his life so he didn't need the requisite kick in the ass that MacLeod so often did. Indeed, this guilt was his last tie to his biological family. He'd be damned if he'd allow Methos to rob him of it!

"Please spare me the old routine of anecdotes and riddles from your long and checkered history," he said, sounding tired and annoyed. "Methos, world's oldest man, breezing in and out of people's lives just long enough to inform them of how fucked up their world view is all because they don't mesh with his cynical, survivalist instincts."

That shut Methos up right quick. Joe was gratified at the unfiltered surprise that washed across the immortal's expression. It gave him the impetus to continue. "What? No flippant comeback? You disappoint me, old man."

Methos blinked, and Joe could just _see_ any and all manner of replies as they flitted through Methos's mind behind the windows of wide green eyes, but the watcher was on a role and wasn't about to let Methos get a word in edgewise. "You break in here, expecting to steal some of my beer because I'm of course going to be participating in some rank social gathering, but having been caught in the act you quickly decide to rationalize your intentions by dispensing a few lines of your fortune-cookie wisdom that will get me to realize the error of my ways and learn the true meaning of Christmas."

"Thanksgiving," Methos whispered into the silence left as Joe stopped to catch his breath.

Joe continued as if he hadn't even heard him. "Did it ever occur to you that the friends you casually avoid whenever the mood strikes might actually have legitimate pain of their own? Rather than try and trick us into converting to your own skewed beliefs why not try actually _empathizing _for a change?" He paused to let that sink in, but didn't really take stock of the immortal's face. If he had he might have stopped there. "Well _sur-prise!_ Good old Joe wants to spend this holiday _alone_." This last word he delivered right in the immortal's face, waving his arms in emphasis of the third person reference. He was actually enjoying finally giving Methos a piece of his mind. It seemed like it was a long time in coming. "I have all the company I need right here with the IRS and a six pack. Go steal your booze someplace else. Let someone else put up with you for a change."

It was actually quite fascinating, watching the subtle shifts in Methos's expression as the immortal seemed to wither under the heat of such angry, hateful words. The flippancy was long gone. So were the arrogance, the sarcasm, the devil-may-care. What was left was a pair of wide green eyes, shockingly bright against a chalk-white face, until that head bowed low and fell back into shadow as the man pushed out of the glare of the overhead lights as he stood from his stool. When he looked up again the shadows crept forward, pooling in the hollows of that angular face, and green eyes had faded into flat grayness, as if the light behind them had guttered out. Joe watched, fascinated, as the old man fumbled his wallet out of a back pocket. With slow, precise movements a crisp Swiss banknote was removed from the aging leather and placed face-up on the bar with nimble fingers that never touched the surface, as though the polished wood would burn them.

As unfamiliar as he was with Swiss currency, Joe glanced down in abject curiosity and slid the bill towards him. He missed Methos replaced the wallet and grabbing his car keys from his jacket pocket.

"I came here, didn't I?"

The sudden intrusion of the immortal's voice, the sound shocking in the heavy silence, startled his attention back where it belonged. His first, utterly irrelevant thought, was that Methos looked old. Methos _never _looked old. He'd seen him tired, resigned, depressed--hell, even devastated,but never old. The incongruity tripped him up long enough that he barely registered the immortal's departure until the door clicked shut behind him.

Joe blinked, startled, and it was like waking up. The memory of what he'd said to Methos tumbled through his mind, along with the bits and pieces he'd seen of Methos's reaction, and he heard again the immortal's words. _I came here, didn't I?_

Oh, shit.

The old man had actually come here seeking nothing else but company for the evening, having no doors welcoming him tonight. And for his troubles, he'd been shoved back out into the cold, chased from the bar by harsh words and accusations. Joe was about to scramble towards the door when he finally noticed what Methos had done as he was leaving.

Double shit.

Methos had never paid for his beer up front before. Was this gesture in direct response to Joe's accusation? The watcher scrambled to the door, fearing all implication, and threw it wide open. All he saw was that a winter storm had kicked up and near whiteout conditions blanketed the empty street. Tracks in the freshly fallen snow were all that was left in evidence of Methos's presence, and they were slowly being devoured even as Joe stood there staring.

He had no choice but to return to his booth and his taxes. Methos was gone with no certainty of ever returning. Worse, Joe couldn't drive now that the storm hit. He was stranded alone at the bar with beautiful memories of making an ass of himself, and a cold pit of worry that he just might have driven Methos away for good.


	3. Ch 2: Meanings

An hour ticked by slowly, then two. Peering out the window, Joe saw that the sudden storm showed no signs of stopping. At some point something knocked out the cable reception so Joe couldn't even check the weather channel. Eventually he decided that he was too distracted to get much else done. Joe stacked the papers and returned them to their proper folders. He left the folders in a pile and headed over to the stage. He was in the process of tuning his guitar when a strange sound made him pause. 

At first he wasn't even sure he heard it, but then it came again: a clear, hollow rapping sound. Someone was knocking on the front door! Curious and suspicious, Joe replaced his guitar and went back to the booth to grab his gun. He went over to the door and opened it, holding the pistol visible at his side. An unexpected but welcomed sight greeted him.

"Methos!"

There stood the old man himself, disheveled, soaking, covered with snow. "May I use your phone?" he asked, his voice choked and strained.

Joe opened the door wide and quickly stepped out of the way. Methos entered a few paces, enough for Joe to be able to shut the door. He stood rigid for a moment, eyes closed, letting the warmth seep in.

"Christ, old man! What the hell happened to you?"

Methos's eyes snapped open suddenly and he whirled around to face the watcher.

"What happened?" Joe asked, softly this time as Methos's look suggested that he either didn't hear or didn't understand the question the first time.

Methos muttered something unintelligible under his breath before answering. "Ice. Curb. Took out a rim. Need a tow."

"Take off that coat, you're drenched."

"Had to walk. I'll clean it up. Phone?"

"Behind the bar." Joe reached for Methos's duster in an attempt to relieve the immortal of the garment. Methos spun out of the grip and backed up quickly. Joe grimaced, waving an awkward hand towards the immortal. "You're shivering."

Methos nodded gruffly, muttering, "s'cold out," as he headed for the bar. Finding the phone he picked up the receiver, only to stare at it dumbly for a moment before replacing it in disgust.

By this time Joe had made his way behind the bar. He fished out the phone book and handed it to Methos. The immortal took it with a grunt of thanks and began flipping through the pages, awkwardly, as though his fingers were still numb from the cold. After several agonizing minutes Methos was finally able to call for a tow truck. Meanwhile Joe had started the coffee pot.

"Coffee will be up soon," he said.

Methos frowned slightly. "Have to wait for the tow truck."

"Where'd you break down?"

"Exeter Street."

Now Joe frowned. That was near the access road for the airport. Implications aside, it would take Methos over an hour to walk back there.

"You can't go walking in this."

"Have to."

"You don't need to be there. They'll just take your car to the nearest garage."

"Have to go."

"No, you don't." There was a pause in the conversation. The two men seemed entranced, staring at each other across a void of either five feet or five thousand years. The spell was only broken when a sudden, violent shudder tore through Methos's frame.

"You're soaked," Joe admonished when Methos finally returned his attentions to the watcher. "Why don't you hang your coat up to dry?"

Methos stood stock still though his eyes were moving, darting back and forth between the watcher and the front door. After what seemed an eternity he made up his mind. He shrugged out of his coat, revealing a soaked sweater underneath. Joe reached out to take it and Methos let him, but only after he removed his sword from its hidden inner pocket. Joe eyed it warily for a moment before retreating to the coat hooks on the wall.

After hanging up the soaking duster, Joe turned to see Methos seated at one of the booths, hunched over and wringing his hands for warmth. The Ivanhoe sat innocently on the table in front of him. Joe made his way to the coffee pot, poured two cups, and headed over to the booth.

"Did you hit some black ice or something?" Joe asked, placing a cup of steaming coffee in front of Methos.

"Must have," the immortal said into his coffee. He held the cup in his left hand; his right was tracing patterns in the hilt of the Ivanhoe. It made Joe rather nervous and he eyed his pistol that sat all the way over on the bar. For the time being they just drank their coffee in a heavy silence. Eventually it seemed as though Methos's color improved and his shivering had lessened.

"Thanks for the coffee," said Methos at last, rising to leave.

"Where do you think you're going?" Asked Joe, rising as well.

"It's a long walk back to Exeter Street. I'd better go now if I want to beat the tow truck." It seemed the immortal was more or less his old self again despite the bone-numbing weariness. His eyes were golden.

"I can't let you go walking in this," Joe protested.

"I'm immortal, remember?" Methos retorted, adding a slight sneer to the last word.

"I don't care who you are. Have you looked outside recently? I wouldn't let the abominable snowman go walking in this weather!"

"Walking is safer than driving but you didn't seem to care then," said Methos, stepping out of the booth and grabbing his sword.

Joe bit his lip, choosing his words carefully. He'd seen Methos wield that sword countless times. He'd even seen him take heads with it. Never had he felt so uneasy around it as he did just now. "I don't think either of us noticed the weather then," he answered finally.

Methos regarded him critically for a moment as though the proverbial gears were turning. In truth he had no intentions of coming back here. He was on his way to the airport and someplace warm when he got careless. Four-wheel drive doesn't do a thing to help you brake. He didn't have any change for a payphone so he had no choice but to comb the streets looking for someone who'd let him call for a tow. He hadn't found a single place or person until he found himself back at Joe's bar. Now it seems that Joe is asking him to stay, a direct turnaround from accusations and commands to go. Methos thought hard about his decision, or tried to at least. He was oh so tired, and he really, really hated the cold. Eventually that's what made the decision for him. He cast his sword back down on the table and crumbled back into the seat in the booth. His expression was akin to that of a petulant child.

Joe knew that he had to say something; that he needed to apologize. And there sat Methos, as though he were (mostly) patiently waiting for it. So Joe did the best thing he could think of: he left to refill the coffee. This time he added a generous dose of Irish whiskey to Methos's mug, thinking the immortal could use it.

"Brought you a refill," he said, handing the steaming mug over. Methos mumbled a thank-you and then downed the entire mug in one long gulp. Joe involuntarily winced. The coffee hadn't stopped steaming. An awkward pause threatened to take over, but Methos deftly averted it.

"I'm going to freshen up," he said to no one and then made for the men's room. Shortly thereafter Joe heard the telling sounds of the electric hand dryers. After a time Joe began to wonder if the immortal had rigged them to stay running and then taken off out the back, but dismissed that thought quickly because the Ivanhoe still sat on the booth in front of him. Almost in an answer to the watcher's thoughts, Methos reemerged from the men's room. He had removed his sweater and was clomping around barefoot in damp jeans. His socks, shoes, and sweater were in a bundle in his hands. For a second Joe almost thought that the immortal's facial expression conveyed embarrassment, but that wasn't exactly it. His eyes were green again. Joe marveled at this constant changing--it just wasn't natural.

"Here, let me take those from you," said Joe, reaching out to take the bundle from Methos's hands. Methos's expression changed to one of surprise and he absently released the bundle into Joe's hands. The watcher disappeared with it into the kitchen, clutching it awkwardly in one hand so that he still had use of his cane. He reappeared a moment later to find Methos seated at the booth, once again fingering his Ivanhoe. He looked a little less like a drowned rat, but his coloring was still off, especially in his hands and fingers.

"Another refill?" Joe asked, pausing halfway between the booth and the bar.

Methos looked up at him, golden eyed. "Beer, if I may," the immortal answered, the words sounded off-handed, casual, and Joe winced. He definitely needed to apologize, and soon.

"Of course," he said as though there were nothing to it. He returned to the booth with two bottles of beer.

"Thanks."

"Look," said Joe awkwardly, trying to decide how to begin. Methos tensed, which was easy to see without the baggy sweater to disguise it. Joe pushed on regardless. "About what I said earlier…"

"It's ok," said Methos, still tracing incomplete patters on his sword hilt.

"No, it isn't," Joe insisted. "I was way outta line, I'm sorry."

Methos's hand stilled. In the following pause he finally dared to make eye contact. "You were right," he said, holding Joe's gaze as though it pained him. "I shouldn't have come."

"That doesn't matter," Joe insisted. "I shouldn't have said those things and I'm sorry."

Methos broke eye contact at last, drawn to another long swig of beer. When he finished he stared down into the booth, but at least his hands were still. "But you weren't wrong," he confessed to his silent hands.

Joe was taken aback by this but recovered quickly. "You mean you actually came here to steal my beer?" he asked, making sure that the joking tone of his voice was emphasized. Methos laughed slightly, but the smile quickly faded. "I thought not."

"It doesn't matter," Methos dismissed. "I pushed, you pushed back stronger. Not your fault I wasn't up to trading verbal blows tonight."

Joe winced at the comment. "That doesn't excuse what I said," he insisted. "I was wrong, completely out of line, and I'm sorry."

Methos sighed, taking a pause to collect himself. When he finally looked up his expression was unreadable. "I didn't come here to rob you," he said, his tone just as unreadable. "But you weren't wrong with what else you said."

Joe thought back, desperately trying to remember what else he'd said. However, angry words aren't often remembered after the fact. "You don't mean that crack about forgetting your friends…" Joe asked, though the question was rhetorical. He took Methos's silence as admission. "No," Joe insisted. "We both know that isn't true."

"Isn't it?" Methos questioned. He seemed so very tired. "I come and go as I please and take off for long periods without any warning."

Joe was silent for a moment. He couldn't argue with that and so needed to try something else. "I--no, _we _know it's dangerous for you to stay in one place too long," he said at last. "We understand. We're not surprised by it and I know none of us ever feel slighted by it."

Methos let out a short laugh, which was unexpected. However, there was a sadness to it that Joe couldn't place. "You're not surprised by it because it's my custom. Are you ever surprised when MacLeod broods or Amanda steals or Richie gets in over his head?" Once again Joe was silent. There was no arguing the point. "And I know that if MacLeod took off without warning that you'd feel slighted."

"Well, that's because I'm his watcher," Joe defended. It was a weak defense and he knew it.

Methos quirked an unusual smile, but said nothing. His fingers were tracing patterns in his Ivanhoe again. Silence crept in until Joe could put the correct words together.

"Ok so maybe you're guilty of ditching us when it's convenient, but that hasn't stopped you from being there whenever we needed you." Methos tensed again, his fingers tripping slightly in their designs before he recovered. Joe decided to press the issue further. "You came all the way from Tibet to warn MacLeod about Kristen. You even took her head to protect him."

"He didn't seem to appreciate the gesture," was Methos's reply, spoken mostly to the sword in front of him rather than the watcher across from him.

"Well MacLeod can be an ass with blinders on," said Joe, and the vehemence behind that statement made Methos look up again. "You hadn't taken a head in two hundred years, and then you're reentry into the game was for his benefit and not yours."

"He wishes that I hadn't gotten involved."

"Yeah, well everyone interested in seeing that his head remains attached is pretty damn grateful."

Methos's expression softened, hearing the truth in the watcher's statement. His lips barely contorted into a smile, but it was there, and it was genuine.

"And I know Mac's grateful that you were there during the dark quickening."

That wiped the smile faded from Methos's expression, for good or ill. "We needed someone who could handle him. He'd lost it, Joe--barely stopped himself from killing on holy ground. Not even--" whatever he was going to say caught in the immortal's throat and he fell abruptly silent around a pitiful, strangled noise. Whatever it was Methos shook it off, and finished his train of thought though sheer strength of will. "An immortal with no regard for the rules and an intimate knowledge of the watchers is dangerous to all of us."

"But you volunteered yourself, leaving Alexa, after you knew that he'd already killed Sean. Shit, you even went to Scotland to get the sword!"

Methos's expression darkened with some emotion that Joe couldn't quite recognize. "Like I said, we needed someone who could handle him. With Darius..." Another unfinished sentence, another almost shudder, as though Methos's thoughts were running in one direction and his good sense was barely keeping up. "The task fell to me," he finished lamely.

Joe just shook his head. "I could go on if I have to," he said, hoping that he'd gotten his point across. There was a pause during which Methos gave no indication either way, so Joe pressed on. "You tried to save my life at the watcher tribunal. Adam Pierson didn't have to step forward and risk his neck like that."

That slightly sad but mostly inscrutable smile returned. "That doesn't stop you from avoiding Lynn because you feel that you should have been condemned like Horton."

Joe opened his mouth to retort but no words escaped. The anger flashed again, hot and bright and oh so familiar, but Joe throttled it mercilessly. He needed to stay in control here, and to do that he couldn't make the same mistake twice. "That doesn't stop me from appreciating the gesture," he said finally, almost grudgingly.

Methos looked up at him then, holding him in scrutinizing gaze that made Joe very uncomfortable but he dared not look away. He saw again the subtle shifting of Methos's expression, Adam Pierson falling away and the ancient immortal resurfacing. Up close and personal he saw the slight hardening in the lines of the mouth, the narrowing of brilliantly green eyes as the color bled from them, a slow hemorrhage of warmth. In the back of his mind, Joe wondered at the effects of a five-thousand-year quickening on hazel eyes, but all such musings fled when Methos spoke.

"Listen to me, Joseph," he said at last, and there was no denying the authority present in his voice. "You are in no way anything like your brother-in-law. He committed hate crimes against immortals. All you're interested in is helping the Highlander survive. The difference is literally life and death. You are nothing like James Horton."

Joe stared, transfixed. This cold, damp, half naked immortal spoke with a presence and authority that stemmed from the confidence of hard-earned wisdom. For all his shrugging off of his five thousand years of experiences, he was never as 'just a guy' as he pretended.

"I know I should know that," Joe admitted at last, this time being the one to look down and away. "But every time I try and talk to Lynn… Her father's dead because of me, and she doesn't even know it."

"Would you rather tell her what her father was? Destroy her memories of him to appease your conscience?"

"Of course not!" Joe declared as though the question were ridiculous.

"Well if she's better off not knowing, then aren't you doing her a favor?"

Joe didn't answer. He didn't have to.

"Horton had to be stopped, everyone agreed on this. It's tragic that you were related, and that's the only reason you feel guilty about it."

Finally Joe sighed. "Maybe that's true," he admitted. "But that doesn't change the fact that I hold him guilty of things that I myself have done."

This time Methos was silent. He closed his eyes briefly, almost like an elongated blink, and waited patiently for Joe to continue. There was something left unsaid there, Joe was certain, but he pressed on regardless.

"I dunno, maybe it does boil down to intent, but that doesn't make things any easier. I mean, who's to say that we weren't both wrong?"

Methos sighed heavily, tiredly. "Only you, and those of us who agree with you."

Oh yeah, there was definitely something there. Joe kept going, Methos's reactions giving him courage to finally give voice to truths he'd kept locked up tight for years. "Even if I can rationalize it to myself, I'll still never really be able to look Lynn in the eye again."

Methos's smile returned briefly but then faded as he blinked again. "You don't need to so long as you yourself accept it."

The immortal's words were almost predictable, though perhaps because he said them, or perhaps because Joe found himself actually having this conversation in the first place when up to a moment ago he would have sworn it was the last conversation he would have _ever _wanted to have with _anyone_, he gave cursory consideration to what Methos was saying.

"I guess I do accept it," Joe said at length. "Unless of course I'm with Lynn."

Methos laughed slightly, tiredly. "And that's why you didn't go to Chicago this Thanksgiving," he surmised, with the air of an exhausted grandmaster finally announcing checkmate long after the game should have ended.

There was a pause during which all of this sunk in, wherein he suddenly realized that Methos had played expertly and then just suddenly as suddenly decided that he didn't care. "You knew all along, didn't you ya bastard," he asked around a low, rueful chuckle, but there was no malice in the statement.

"I suspected," Methos answered, not making eye contact. "But since you weren't sure, neither was I."

"Did I ever call you a manipulative, calculating son of a bitch?"

"You may have mentioned something along those lines once."

"Well I mean it as a compliment buddy." It was as though the weight of the world had been lifted from Joe's shoulders. Methos smiled broader this time, but it didn't quite reach those mutable eyes. "That's why you came here tonight, isn't it," Joe added. It wasn't a question. Methos's expression darkened and the smile fell back into nothingness. "Methos?"

"I honestly don't know why I came here, Joe," Methos replied eventually.

"What do you mean?"

Methos half shrugged, not entirely sure of that himself. "The flight crew wished us all a happy Thanksgiving when we landed. I was planning on stopping by for a pint, but then I figured you'd be closed."

"But you came anyway?" Joe was confused. He really didn't believe Methos would have stolen beer from a closed bar, so what the hell?

"Yeah," Methos said softly. "I know. Force of habit maybe." He went pack to tracing patterns on his sword.

Joe was baffled by all that had happened. Methos drove to his bar but claimed to not know the reason why. Then he broke in but not to steal. He caved under a fierce verbal beating but then came back after wrecking his Range Rover. And somehow he knew exactly what was troubling the watcher, and even got him to admit to it. Oddly enough, these events added up to a typical encounter with Methos. Well, excluding Methos's flight and subsequent return that is. A calculating son of a bitch indeed. Joe nearly suspected that his leaving and coming back had been orchestrated to make him feel guilty and thus make his confession easier.

That would have made sense if it weren't for the other strikingly un-Methos-like goings on. Not even Adam Pierson was this withdrawn, and neither he nor Methos ever looked so tired and, well, miserably depressed. Not even after Alexa died. There was definitely something troubling his friend tonight, and Joe was determined to get to the bottom of it. Return the favor, as it were.

"You look like hell, old man," Joe said at last.

Methos nearly laughed. Nearly. "Not quite," was the vague reply.

Joe didn't want to hazard a guess at what it meant, and so decided to change the subject. "Why'd you leave you sword on the booth?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time."

This was frustrating; he was getting no where. "Did you really see me as a threat?"

Methos looked up sharply, not understanding the nature of the question. Then it dawned on him. "No," he answered with that same sad smile. "You are no threat to an ally of the Highlander. The sword was for your benefit, not mine."

The first thing that struck Joe about that statement was that he used the word 'ally' instead of 'friend,'and for the second time he referred to MacLeod as 'the Highlander'. Many of MacLeod's opponents called him that, especially the older ones, but the title had originally been given to Connor by The Kurgan. The recent trend was for the elder MacLeod to be called by the surname and for Duncan to be called 'Highlander.' Not many immortals had earned nicknames among their own kind to the degree that the 'Highlander' moniker owned. Everyone who had heard of him called him that, while the equally infamous Connor was simply called 'MacLeod'. The watchers could only offer mere speculation, though Joe guessed it had something to do with Cassandra's prophecy (not that he believed in prophecies, of course).

Only after pondering this first part for a while did the second part sink in. _For your benefit, not mine_. Joe could have kicked himself. It wasn't that Methos kept the sword within reach, it was that he kept it _between _them, resting in plain sight. "I know you're not a threat," Joe answered at last.

Methos snorted a laugh. "Then you don't know me very well," he retorted bitterly. His hand weakly clutched the hilt of the Ivanhoe.

Joe's grin flashed feral for a moment. "I know you can talk all you want about me and Horton by pretending we're you and Kronos."

The sword clanged out of Methos's hand and back to the booth. If possible, he was even paler than before. "Why do you say that?" he asked with deceptive calm. The immortal's posture all but sang of tension and tight control.

"Oh, I dunno. Just that bit about hating to judge your brother for the same crimes that you've committed."

The tension remained for a brief time, but then suddenly Methos let out a bark of derisive laughter. "And he lives up to his title at last!"

Surprised and uncertain as to whether or not he should be insulted Joe simply gave a half shrug. "Well I _am_ a watcher," he insisted. "Shouldn't I occasionally be good at my job?"

Methos shook his head and sighed, amused despite himself. Then suddenly the exhaustion was back. He pressed the heels of both palms against his eyes, hard enough to make his vision swim after he released them. Thusly reminded of the immortal's early uncharacteristic behavior, Joe was instantly concerned.

"Methos?"

His response was a guttural mumble in a language Joe didn't recognize. Familiar with MacLeod's tendency to conduct his truly vicious swearing in languages other than English (Gaelic, Sioux, and Cantonese sitting at the top of that list), Joe took it in his stride. He waited patiently for Methos to get over the impulse and answer him, but the ongoing silence swiftly unnerved him, as did Methos's continued need to shove his palms through his eye sockets.

"That bad, huh?" the watcher prompted, hoping to illicit some sort of response.

Well it worked, just not as Joe intended.

Methos moved his hands around to let his fingers massage his temples, as though to displace a growing headache there. His eyes stayed closed, and unless Joe was mistaken there were lines of pain there now that weren't a moment ago. And when Methos spoke again it still wasn't in any language Joe recognized.

"_Lossë untupa silme. Im na vanwa._"

Joe was starting to worry now. He'd never heard his friend utter complete sentences in irrelevant languages before. He'd once seen Methos in Switzerland at the Watcher's Headquarters carry on a three-way conversation in English, French, and German with an ease that was both fascinating and a bit disconcerting, but this? Hell. This was different, and taken with the immortal's overall appearance, was beginning to frighten the watcher. "Um, remember English?" he asked uncertainly.

Methos's eyes snapped, and Joe got the impression that the immortal was surprised to see him sitting there. A small moment passed that the watcher could have sworn Methos used to reorient himself before a smile crossed his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes--eyes that shimmered golden like ripples across a pond. "I don't think the world will let me forget this pitifully crude language," he said at length. "But then, I thought the same thing of Latin, too."

Joe just shook his head. "Yeah, but Latin I recognize. I have _no idea_ what that was."

"What what was?" Methos asked, all innocence. Any other night the watcher would have thumped the immortal for the ill joke.

"I think perhaps you should take the couch in my office," he said, his face lined with concern.

Surprisingly though, Methos did not object. "Yeah," he agreed distractedly, rising from the booth. "Now that you mention it, a nap sounds really good right about now." The immortal yawned, stretched, and plodded heavily in the direction of Joe's office across the bar without looking back.

Joe was confused, worried, and slightly guilty, thinking that he was partially to blame for the immortal's fatigue. However, he also sensed that there was more to it than that. Something else was eating at Methos, and Joe felt determined to find out what it was.


	4. Ch 3: Ask me no questions

It had been barely an hour since Methos decided to lie down in the office. For lack of anything else to do, Joe had gone back to the stage and was fingering through a few tunes on his guitar, some new and some old. He had just finished the last few chords of _Jack of Diamonds_

when he suddenly saw Methos standing in the doorway from the office. 

"Please, don't stop on my account," the immortal said with a grin. Joe noticed that his jeans were practically dry, as was his hair. He still looked haggard but some of the weariness had faded from his face. He looked worlds better even though the nap was brief. Of course, considering the state he was previously in, that wasn't saying much.

"I didn't expect to see you up for a while yet," was Joe's response, putting the guitar back on its stand. Joe pushed himself off the stool and grabbed his cane, then headed for the bar. Methos joined him there and sat down on the only available stool. "Beer?"

An amused grin twisted Methos's lips."Do you have to ask?"

"No, but it's polite." Joe returned the grin as he handed over another draft of beer.

Methos took a long draught, finishing half the glass. His eyes closed as though he were savoring it. "Has it stopped snowing?" he asked at length, sounding hopeful.

Joe couldn't help his amusement. "Nope. In fact, I think it's snowing harder."

Methos's face fell. "You're kidding."

"Take a look for yourself."

Methos did just that, sliding off the stool and heading for the window. The lights in the bar were greater than the lights outside so all one could see was their reflection. Methos pressed his face to the glass like a child peering into a candy store and framed his gaze with his hands. After a few brief seconds he pulled himself away muttering things that Joe couldn't quite hear.

"Cable's still out," Joe added as soon as Methos opened his mouth. The immortal shut it again, the watcher having answered his question before it could be voiced.

"Great," Methos grumped once he regained his seat. He finished off his beer in another long draught, seeking its comforts. "Just great."

"Well, it could be worse," Joe offered as he made a show of refilling the tall glass.

"We're snowed in with no transportation or hope of an end in sight, and I'm sitting here half naked," Methos scoffed. "How could it _possibly _be worse?"

"We could be out of beer," Joe pointed out over an unrepentant grin as he slid Methos the refill.

Methos looked from beer to bartender and couldn't stop himself from laughing.

"Just trying to keep it in perspective."

"Indeed." As if to prove the point, Methos chugged this one until nothing was left but stray foam in the bottom of the glass.

With an exaggerated sigh Joe refilled the glass again, saying, "besides, it's better to have a warm place to stay tonight, instead of being out there broken down on the side of the road," with forced casualness.

Methos turned glittering gold eyes upon the watcher, as though struck by a sudden revelation. "It is indeed," he said with a genuine smile. Joe returned the smile heartily. It appeared as though they had truly made amends.

Methos drank his beer while Joe poured himself a glass of something stronger. The two took in their preferred alcohol in silence for a time, just glad to be able to be in each other's company.

"So what are an immortal and a watcher to do when snowed in?" Joe asked at length, thinking that they should find something to alleviate the inevitable boredom.

"Get drunk!" was Methos's enthusiastic reply.

Joe couldn't help the laugh. "That doesn't sound too exciting. Besides, I've seen you drink everyone under the table. You never get drunk, old man."

"Oh, never say never, Joseph. I just haven't tried hard enough yet."

"C'mon, Methos. How many people can keep up with a 5000 year old alcohol tolerance?" said Joe, exasperated.

"Not many," Methos admitted. Then he had a sudden though: "We could turn it into a game!"

Joe's face was a study in amused disbelief. "You can't_ seriously _want to play a drinking game?"

"Why not? Richie's taught me quite a few good ones."

"And I'll bet MacLeod would be thrilled to hear that," said Joe sarcastically.

Methos sighed. "First of all, Richie is legal, at least in the eyes of immortals and watchers, and second," he flashed the watcher a wolfish grin, "MacLeod isn't here."

"I can't believe I'm agreeing to this…" Joe hung his head in defeat and Methos practically let out a squeal of delight.

"Do you have any ping-pong balls?"

"Do you _see_ any ping-pong tables?"

"Right..." Methos's eyes were darting all around the bar, ostensibly searching for inspiration. "Do you still keep your poker deck here?"

"Yeah," Joe answered. "But you can't play any of the card games with just two people."

Methos frowned in agreement. Then: "I know! Open the till, I know you have quarters!"

Joe practically sputtered. "You can_not_ be seriously asking me to play quarters!"

Methos blinked. "Why not?"

"It's a silly frat game."

"And Adam Pierson is a silly grad student. Why can't he play quarters?"

Joe shook his head, incredulous. "There is no conceivable way I'm going to play quarters in my own bar."

Methos sighed heavily, his enthusiasm deflated. "All right then," he said dejectedly. "I don't suppose you have any better ideas?"

Joe smothered a wince. He hadn't meant to take the wind out of the immortal's sails. "I don't suppose you play an instrument?" he offered at last, fully expecting a negative answer.

Methos arched an eyebrow. "Feel like stroking your guitar again?"

Joe shrugged. "It's all I can think of. Though, I don't know how much you want to listen."

Methos treated the watcher's self-deprecation as a personal affront. "As I recall, I told you not to stop on my account."

A smile stole it's way across Joe's face. "So you did."

With a laugh and a slight shake of his head, Joe left the bar and made his way back over to the stage. He sat back down on his stool and picked up his guitar, absently fingering it and plucking out some nameless tune as he made minute adjustments. In his concentration he hadn't noticed that Methos had followed him. He didn't notice until he heard a few chords suddenly chime out on the electric keyboard.

"What are you doing?" he asked, amusement and disbelief vying for control of his voice.

"What does it look like?" Methos responded dryly as his fingers continued their explorations.

"I didn't know you played."

"Five thousand years, Joe. You don't think that in all that time I never studied music?"

Joe's watcher-sense was tingling. "You've studied music?"

Another one of Methos's half-shrugs. "Well… not as such. But I did take piano lessons once upon a time." As if to emphasize this point he suddenly struck the opening chords to Beethoven's fifth symphony.

Joe knew that he was being bated, with the chords and the sly smile, and chose to ignore it. "Fair enough," he said instead. "What shall we play?"

Methos shrugged and stilled his fingers. "Oh, I don't know. Why don't you start something, and I'll join in."

"Sounds good."

Joe began to aimlessly pluck out a few chords on his guitar, trying to decide what to play, while Methos looked on patiently. Eventually the immortal picked up on something in the mindless acoustic notes and entered in with the corresponding piano chords. Joe looked over sharply, but then suddenly realized what his fingers were up to. Then the duo began to play _Bohemian Rhapsody_ in earnest, Joe singing and Methos content to let him.

"You know," said Joe when the song was finished. "I sensed that something was distinctly lacking in our performance."

"Yeah," Methos agreed. "We could have really used a drummer." When Joe laughed he amended, "or perhaps a bassist?"

"I was referring to the absence of backup vocals," Joe said pointedly. Methos had remained silent throughout the song.

"Were you now." The question was rhetoric, the sarcasm in Methos's tone undercut by the amusement shining in his eyes. Suddenly Joe laughed.

Methos blinked. "What's so funny?"

"Stood on the same stage as Julius Caesar and the Rolling Stones," he said, quoting.

Methos paused, confused, until it dawned on him: that's what he'd told MacLeod when they'd first met. Methos shrugged half-heartedly. "What can I say? I get around."

"Were you Keith Richards's body guard, too?" Joe was only partially joking.

"Of course not," Methos scoffed. "Do I look buff enough for that? They hired big, beefy types who look intimidating in trench coats and brass knuckles."

"Then what did you do for them?" Joe asked. "Don't tell me you actually played…"

"Why is that so hard to believe?" Methos sounded sincerely hurt.

"I would have figured it was too public a lifestyle for the world's oldest immortal," Joe recovered quickly, and Methos laughed.

"Indeed. No Joseph, I didn't play, though it was tempting to see if my skills were worthy."

"Then what were you?"

"Just a humble roadie. Summer of '72."

Joe whistled. "That must have been great."

"Sure," Methos agreed. "If you think hauling heavy equipment, living out of a suitcase, sleeping a few hours a night on a tour bus, and getting paid next to nothing for an extremely thankless task, then yeah, it was a scream." The sarcasm overshadowed the amusement that time.

"It can't have been that bad," Joe protested.

Methos's dour expression was suddenly lit by a sly grin. "Well, not it you consider the P.O. box I have in London that still gets Christmas cards from Mick Jagger."

"You're shitting me."

"I've got proof," was Methos's glib reply.

"I'll bet you do," Joe dismissed, not wanting to argue.

Methos just shrugged and returned his attentions to the keys. After a while it became apparent that he had returned to their earlier game. Joe had to concentrate hard in order to pick out the song, then laughed at Methos's choice. With a shrug he followed in with the guitar part for _Pinball Wizard_, which quickly progressed into a medley from the entire musical. Joe was fairly amazed at how natural Methos was at the keys. At some point, with some form of wordless, sightless communication, they both agreed to be done and the music stopped. A sweet silence filled the air, which was suddenly interrupted by Methos's lighthearted laugher.

"What's so funny?" Joe asked.

"I was just thinking," said the immortal. "Have you ever noticed how Roger Daltry bears an almost uncanny resemblance to the late Hugh Fitzcairn?"

Joe paused a moment in thought before suddenly laughing himself. "You know, I'd never thought about it, but you're absolutely right. How 'bout that."

"Except Fitz didn't have a single musical bone in his entire body," said Methos with a laugh.

Joe couldn't just let that one pass by. "You knew Fitz?"

For a moment Methos's face darkened and Joe was worried that the subject would be suddenly dropped. "Not well," the immortal admitted at length. "I knew his teacher."

Joe screwed up his face in thought. "The name escapes me," he said at last.

"You really should study more," was Methos's serious response.

"C'mon, old man. What's the harm in telling me his name?"

"What makes you think it's a he?" There went that eyebrow again.

"Because Fitz was too chauvinistic to ever respect a woman enough to let one teach him to fight."

"He respected Rebecca well enough."

Joe rolled his eyes. "_Everyone _respected Rebecca. But I know for a fact that Fitz was definitely not one of her students."

Methos smiled slightly and then nodded. "You're right about that. We all respected her."

That one was unexpected and too good to ignore. "Wait a sec--you knew Rebecca, too?"

"She was…" Methos paused suddenly, as though he realized to late that he was about to say something he shouldn't have, and the words trailed off into silence. He corralled his thoughts after a moment. "One of the last of the old ones. No one over two thousand didn't not know Rebecca."

"You old farts have some sort of elitist club or something?" Joe was fishing and he knew it.

Methos's grin was enigmatic. "Or something."

The immortal seemed content to just let the conversation die there, but Joe was struck by a sudden thought. "Who's the second oldest?"

Methos's eyes widened in surprise before narrowing into a sharp, calculating gaze. "Excuse me?"

"You're the oldest living immortal, but who's next? Who's number two?" Joe expected a quick evasion to the question, but surprisingly (or maybe not all that surprisingly), Methos only laughed.

"Cassandra is the oldest immortal on file," he said evasively.

"Obviously," said Joe impatiently. "But from what we gather, she's only 3300 or so."

"Give or take," Methos interjected lightly.

"Give or take," Joe returned. "But that still 1700 years younger than you. That's a big gap, even for immortals." Methos nodded solemnly. "So who comes in between?"

"Rebecca did," he said, his voice soft and sad, but the admission came willingly.

"How old was she when she died?" Joe blurted, spurred on by the fact that Methos relented so readily. The watchers had no first death information on Rebecca, but her chronicle was one of the oldest they had.

Methos paused for a moment, thoughtful. "Fourth among us," he surmised at last.

Joe's jaw dropped slightly. "I had no idea," he said softly to himself.

"Not even Amanda knew how old she really was. It's habit with us… old farts," he began, using Joe's words with the slightest bit of emphasis, "to keep such things secret."

"So I've been told," said Joe with a dismissive laugh. Then: "What was she like?"

"You've watched MacLeod for nigh on twenty years now. I'm sure you have some inkling of her."

"Glimpses at a distance, my friend," said Joe rather wistfully.

Methos sighed, a distant look slowly claiming his features. "She was light," the immortal said at last. "Being in her presence was like…" His voice trailed off and Joe grew impatient.

"Like what, old man?"

"It's not something one can easily describe, Joe," he confessed. "She was a lot like Darius, but not."

"Alike but not," said Joe sarcastically. "That makes a lot of sense."

Methos shrugged again, defeated. "She wasn't touched by the same darkness that he was. Her responsibilities were… different."

"Responsibilities?" Joe asked, confused, but Methos was silent, lost in his own thoughts.

"I think it's time for another beer," he said at last, shaking off whatever memories he had been momentarily lost in. "You want anything?"

"No, I think I'm gonna stay right here and work on a few things," said the watcher, once again returning his attentions to his guitar. He knew better than to push Methos for more information. Indeed, the glimpses gained tonight were rare admissions by the immortal. Idly he wondered if these were because he was simply too fatigued to make up stories (if indeed he was telling the truth in the first place, but Joe had the sinking suspicion that he was). That only added to the watcher's worry. After all, his admission about Caesar and Rome came willingly, and that was before--

Before you mouthed off, Joe chided himself. Whatever was eating at Methos, he certainly hadn't made things better. Indeed, he even wondered as to how easily the old man appeared to have forgiven him. 'Sticks and stones,' as Methos would say, but really Joe wondered if he was forgiven simply because Methos lacked the mental stamina to be angry, and therefore when Joe offered his apology…

Something was definitely off about Methos tonight. Joe didn't know what it was, if it was bad enough to lower Methos's defenses enough that a verbal bashing could chase him from the bar, make him admit to hard truths, speak complete sentences in unrecognizable languages, and volunteer information, all because he didn't have the energy to, well, be _Methos_, then it definitely warranted addressing. The only question, was how.


	5. Ch 4: I'll tell you no lies

Joe continued to pluck out tunes, some new, some new-to-him. Every time he glanced over towards the bar he saw the same thing: Methos seated on the stool with his back to him, a tall glass of beer always within easy reach. Each time Joe saw that glass the level of beer inside it was different from the time before. The watcher had no real idea of how many the immortal had consumed but he guessed the number to be quite high. 

Nearly an hour passed in this manor, but Joe's mind had started to drift long before that. By now he was just letting his fingers stroll across the strings, not much caring what he played. His thoughts were elsewhere. Actually, his thoughts were across the bar, drinking their umpteenth beer. Joe was still no closer to finding out what was eating at the world's oldest immortal, and his curiosity—as well as his concern—was definitely piqued.

He wasn't aware of what his fingers were doing, but apparently Methos was.

"What was that?"

Joe looked up, startled out of his musings, to see that Methos had pivoted on his bar stool and was staring at him intently.

"That song you were just playing. What was it?"

"Oh, this?" Joe plucked out the familiar notes again.

Methos nodded emphatically. "Yes, yes that one!" He dropped off the stool and landed on wobbly legs, being mostly tired and only partially sober. "What is that?"

"I'm not really sure," Joe confessed. "I had a buddy in Vietnam who'd play these notes on his harmonica. Every night when we didn't have to keep quiet, for the better part of a year. I heard the damn thing so many times I memorized the notes. When I got back stateside and picked up my guitar again, I figured out how to play it. Now I just play it for practice sometimes. It's a nice tune, but it doesn't lend itself to anything, really."

Joe felt more than saw the sharpening of Methos's gaze and knew that the wheels were turning in that ancient mind. A tightening of the jaw, the furrow deepening between his eyes--something was taking root there, all right.

"Play it again," Methos instructed, and since curious didn't even begin to cover it, Joe obliged him. The tune was simple and repetitive and remarkably un-complicated. He could play it from memory, half asleep, while thinking about just about anything else.

"Again."

Joe shrugged and nodded and went through the notes a second time, and then a third, forth, and fifth, all the while watching Methos watching him. He played, watched, and wondered--and felt the hairs on the back of his neck climb up one by one.

"What is it, old man?" he asked, his voice sudden and shocking in air that thrummed with sweet music riding on an unnamed tension. "You recognize it or something?"

Methos blinked and the release was palpable, as though the space between them had been pulled taut like a rubber band only to bounce back again, swift and sudden into enforced relaxation. "It's too high," he pronounced, definitively, into the pooling lassitude.

Joe merely arched an eyebrow.

"Lower some of the notes," Methos elaborated with careful patience.

Joe snorted a laugh. "Which ones?"

"Just do it!" The immortal snapped, but his hands were twitching, clenching and unclenching with tripping fingers, and Joe knew that Methos was holding onto something but he was damned if he knew what. With an exaggerated sigh, he did what he was told.

Methos closed his eyes and concentrated intently. "Closer, but still too high."

"Well it won't go much lower without a capo."

Methos gestured impatiently, and Joe grit his teeth and swallowed whatever he might have said. After applying the capo and completely retuning his guitar, he played the song yet again. Once again Methos shut his eyes to listen, only this time he gave no indication and Joe was forced to wait for instructions..

"Don't stop," Methos directed, his voice painfully soft. Those unsteady hands had balled into white-knuckled fists, and Joe realized it was the song he clung to, the notes that wafted through the air between them as though he had to ride on every one and pull it in, and so Joe obliged him. To deny Methos now would have been beyond cruel.

Three more repetitions passed before Methos spoke again. "It's too fast." This time his voice was clinical. He'd found what he was looking for and was now dissecting it.

Joe couldn't help himself. "Really," he scoffed, part incredulous and part sarcastic.

"It should have more of a lyrical flow," Methos elaborated. "You have it so fast it's halting, too much like a jig."

"What's wrong with that?" The question was an honest one.

Methos would have none of it. "Everything!" Then he winced, apparently dismayed at his own outburst. Joe watched him reel it back, collect the parts that had scattered and reshuffle them back where they belonged. "Please, Joseph." A naked plea. Joe marveled that it must have cost the immortal something terrible, keeping that level of control.

"Slow like blues?"

Methos nodded, and Joe forced a smiled. It was either that or give in to the impulse to question things. Methos didn't seem like he could handle his curiosity right now. He played the song as directed, and when Methos shook his head halfway through the first run he altered it, and again and again and again until the tune took shape according to the immortal's vision.

"That's it!" Methos proclaimed at last, and there was a terrible promise layered within the elation of discovery. So might Oppenheimer have looked, the day of the Trinity Test. "There it is, right there."

"There what is?" Joe asked, still playing.

Then the most unexpected thing in all the world happened.

Methos began to sing.

His voice was soft, and slow, like he was sorely out of practice and feeling very self conscious. After the first few lines though, his voice matched pitch with the guitar, and his smooth baritone filled the bar… and dumbfounded that bartender playing the music. Methos had a pleasant voice, and the song sounded natural coming from him.

It was an old song, Joe knew. It sounded like it should have been sung around a campfire. The guitar accompaniment didn't sound too bad, but one could easily tell that the piece wasn't written for the guitar. Indeed, it had surely been written long before guitars had been invented.

Joe didn't know what language Methos was singing in. He didn't recognize a single word or phrase. However, he didn't have to. The emotion conveyed in Methos's voice as his tongue tumbled over and around the words was heartbreakingly clear. This language, light and pleasant to listen to, produced almost entirely in the front of the mouth, with the tongue and teeth and lips, almost like French but without the nasality, coupled with Methos's surprisingly emotive voice, was enough to convey feelings of immense sadness, and loss, far better than any blues Joe had played or heard in a long, long time. Joe realized now, as he felt his eyes begin to mist, why Methos was so insistent that it be slowed down. That was no dancing song, God no.

This was a dirge, a lament.

But a lament for what, or whom, that was the question.

When Methos finished the song, he looked down and away again, almost turning around. His cheeks flushed slightly from embarrassment. Joe's fingers ground to a stop, unnatural and discordant. The ensuing silence left him feeling oddly bereft, and he spoke more to fill the void of it than out of any hope of getting an answer.

"What _was _that?"

Methos didn't answer, if even he heard the question. If even he was capable of answering. He stood transfixed, his eyes staring unseeing at some point on the floor. Wherever his mind had taken him, it was far away from here.

Joe put his guitar back on its stand and stood up. "Methos? Yo, Methos!" He walked over to the edge of the stage and climbed down gingerly, as was his way with his prostheses. "Adam?" He tried the different tactic as he approached the distracted immortal, finally waving a hand back and forth in front of Methos's face. "Earth to the old guy!"

Methos jumped, starting slightly when he saw that the watcher was now standing not two feet away from him. He looked confused, his mouth parting as if to answer but no sound was forthcoming.

If Joe didn't know better, he'd have sworn that Methos had just now woken up from that nap--or perhaps a flashback?--and was surprised to find himself standing in the middle of the bar. "I think you'd better sit down, old man."

Methos paused a moment before nodding. He couldn't remember a time when he'd felt so tired, and that was definitely saying something. Of all the nights to hear that song… Yes, Murphy was definitely an immortal.

"No-no," Joe's voice cut in, and Methos blinked. Suddenly the watcher was standing by his shoulder--when had he moved? "I think that you should take a booth."

It was then that Methos noticed that he had been headed for the bar. With a sigh he allowed Joe to lead him over to the booth where his sword was still resting. Perhaps attempting to balance on a barstool wasn't the smartest choice for right now, he mused as he sunk down into the booth and allowed his head to bow forward and rest on the table atop his crossed arms.

"Can I get you something?" Joe's voice came again, this time to his left. "Beer?"

"No!" Methos protested with sudden vehemence, his head shooting up. However, if he was planning on explaining himself those plans were suddenly derailed. By what, Joe didn't have a clue, but the immortal's expression clearly showed that train jumping its tracks. "Water's fine," Methos said instead, his voice still distracted.

Joe nodded and headed over towards the bar. He filled a tall glass with water and added a few ice cubes. Then he poured himself a smaller glass of MacLeod's favorite scotch. After what had just transpired, the watcher deemed that he needed it. Methos looked up again when Joe set their glasses on the table.

"I think this is the first time you've ever ordered water here," he said as he down.

The immortal nodded dumbly as he picked up his glass. He gulped the top third of it before putting it back down on the booth. "Your bar has had an evening of firsts from me tonight," he conceded, his lips twitching into the faintest of smirks. "I've sang, played, and ordered water, and all while topless."

Joe had to laugh at that. Then: "why the water?" he asked; the first of many, many questions, and seemingly, the simplest.

Methos sighed heavily. "Five thousand years, Joe, and do you know when they invented indoor plumbing? Or irrigation? Sliced bread, my ass."

"So that song put you in the mood for water?" Joe was fishing, and he knew it.

Methos shot him an annoyed glance. "No, the ungodly amounts of alcohol in my system put me in the mood for water." But the sarcasm didn't fall nearly as sharp as he'd probably meant it to. Joe took it in, along with how Methos's shoulders were still slightly slumped, and how he easily could read the lines of tension that etched themselves into the immortal's skin now that they weren't hidden by some baggy sweater.

"Funny," he said, "but I don't believe you."

That one earned the watcher an icy glare.

"C'mon, old man. You have to admit that you haven't been acting yourself tonight."

The glare narrowed to a vicious point, and the cold grin that bled into Methos's expression was the reflection of that knife, unsheathing. "Yeah, well, you know. What with the jetlag, and the car accident, the painful reminders of the past, and hateful accusations..."

Joe tensed, recoiling slightly. He'd deserved that. He also wasn't going to allow himself to be distracted. "Painful reminders of the past?"

Methos indulged in an exaggerated shrug, his head falling back to thump against the wall. "What do you want, Joe? An anecdote or riddle from my long and checkered history? Or perhaps a few lines of that 'fortune-cookie wisdom' you seem to like so much." His voice was dismissive, and the exhaustion laced therein wasn't just for show.

"I just want to know what's up with you, old man," Joe said earnestly, allowing his worry to show.

Methos sighed, and Joe watched the fight drain out of him, all those tense muscles relaxing by degrees. Then he took a long sip of water, for courage probably, or maybe he was just stalling. Joe was struck by the inane thought that the immortal didn't look like he was eating as much as he should as he watched skin slide over too-prominent ribs.

"There was a time when I killed and died for this," Methos said at last. He was staring at Joe's altered reflection through his glass, at the watcher almost didn't want to know what he saw in that distorted picture.

"For water?"

Methos nodded. "When I lived in the desert, long ago."

"Are those the painful memories?" Joe felt like he was grasping at straws, but he was grateful that Methos was talking.

Methos quirked a small smile. "Dying is usually painful, Joseph." Then that smile contorted. "Not that you'd be an authority on the subject or anything."

Joe shook his head with an exasperated chuckle. "You know that's not what I meant."

"No." The cryptic reply was tacked onto the tails of another sigh.

Silence returned again, but Joe would have none of it. "Come on, Methos," he all but begged. "Talk to me."

Methos smiled slightly again, that unkind little smile of his. "Why should I?" he challenged quietly.

Joe's answer was sure and easy. "Because if something's bugging you enough for others to actually be able to _see _that something's bugging you, then it must be serious."

"That transparent, am I?" Methos asked, his grin cooling to a smirk.

"You said yourself that you weren't up to trading verbal blows tonight."

"Then why are you pursuing this?"

That brought Joe up short. There was nothing he could say to that. "Because I want to help," he settled on at last.

Methos gave up a bark of incredulous laughter. "And badgering me is helping?"

Joe shrugged for effect. "Well if you'd just tell me what's wrong that it wouldn't be badgering, now, would it."

Methos rubbed tiredly at his eyes, groaning in frustration and exhaustion.

"Please, Methos. Whatever it is, I'm sure talking about it would be better than sitting here stewing about it and pretending that nothing's wrong."

"You're a watcher, Joe." Methos's hands were still pressing into his eyes. "Not a psychiatrist."

"I'm a bartender," Joe returned. "Close enough."

"Why are you so intent on helping me?" There was a wealth of bitterness beneath the confusion in Methos's tone, his mind having already supplied a dozen unhappy answers. "Do you feel the need to clear your conscience from earlier, or are you looking to pad your records a little with a few glimpses at an immortal's past? Do they still offer nifty little bonus checks for that?"

All right, that one stung. "Some of us don't need a selfish reason to want to help our friends." The words flew out before he could stop them. Joe knew he'd put his foot in it when Methos's face darkened.

"I'm going to put my clothes on, I think." Then he stood without another word and made his way to the kitchen. Joe said nothing, only able to stare after him.

Methos found where Joe had hung his socks and sweater to dry over the industrial sink. The socks were dry so he put those on, relieved to no longer have to walk on Joe's floor in bare feet. It is a bar, after all, no matter how clean Joe tries to keep it. His sneakers were mostly dry, too, so he put those on as well. After all, who wants black-soled socks? Alas, his sweater was still damp. It was no longer dripping though, and most of the wetness seemed to have been pulled down by gravity into the bottom half of the garment and sleeves. Deciding that he desperately needed the baggy concealment of the sweater, he put it on anyway. After all, immortals need not worry about catching cold.

Once again having the protection of the sweater made Methos feel worlds better, even if it _was _still damp and miserable to wear. Joe had been able to see all of his reactions to things: every muscle's tensing, every relaxation, every sharp intake of breath, every silent sigh. Aside from being literally naked, Methos felt vulnerable being so exposed. Without his many masks, who was he? Deep down inside, he wasn't sure if he even knew. He sure as hell wasn't ready to see what Joe Dawson thought of it.

Of course, deep down inside, he was also curious as hell to find out. Who was the man he buried all those millennia ago? The man who fought and killed, and died, for water in the Sumerian desert, beneath the scorching sun when it was still young and the world was large and new and only the immortals didn't fear the ocean? The man who remembered a time when horses weren't tamed for riding and bronze was so new a discovery it couldn't be had everywhere? The man who became a scholar in the Temple at Ur, by the feet of the Ancient himself, whose lament he'd just sang anew, when writing had been newly invented?

Who was the immortal he was before Methos? Did he still exist, somewhere inside that tumultuous quickening? Or did Death truly kill him off, or was he still there, lurking behind the walls that Methos didn't like to acknowledge with his conscious mind, with all his scholarly knowledge of the Old Ones and the Beginning of Days?

Methos didn't know.

For millennia he has denied the existence of all that he was before Death, preferring it that the man that he was had died. Death killed him and took his place. Or, more specifically, he died when Ur fell, and Death avenged him. Once again his thoughts drifted back to his brothers, and to what he was, what they were, the cities they razed to the ground…

He thought of Kronos: his savior, his brother, his counterpart. If only he could have told MacLeod the reasons he could not have killed him last year when the man practically begged for answers. If only he could tell Joe now.

Methos. Such an interesting name. And somehow, so fitting. Methos. Mythos. A myth. That's what he was. In essence that what he always has been. He was a myth now, as the oldest living immortal, and he was a myth then, as Death of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. But it held a very different reference, long ago, when Kronos gave him the name, before they rode together. A myth he was then, even, to the Kassite mercenary fascinated by the man with strange eyes who could not die.

A man who was, in essence, already dead. Mythos took his place. Methos he became, when he decided to adopt the name in earnest. Though for 750 years, only five people knew that name. Only one of them was alive today.

And she wanted his head.

Cassandra. His prophetess. As he felt the dampness of his sweater eat into his skin he wondered if she remembered her real name, or if, like he did, she tried to forget it, and go by the one given to her by someone who came to own more of her soul than she would ever admit to.

Methos could empathize.

These things and more weighed on his soul tonight, just as they had been ever since Geneva. Ever since those pasty, bookish, myopic, caffeine-addicted Methos researchers who thought it was cool to hold their meetings in restaurants simply so they could speak to each other in Latin and ancient Greek to impress the wait-staff began offering their wildest theories on all that Methos is, was, and should be, influenced entirely by overactive imaginations, a distinct need for religion in their lives, a few too many lonely nights with the sci-fi channel.

_Methos is old. He must know all the ins and outs of the Bible, the Koran, the Torah, and every other religious treatise in existence._

_Methos is powerful. He must have amassed a fighting skill by now that would make virtually untouchable._

_Methos has been playing the game for at least five thousand years. He must know of its origins, and of immortals who've broken the the rules._

_What was up with that Methuselah Stone? Rebecca had it. Luthor killed for it. Does it **really **have magical powers? _

_Are we really alone in the universe? I bet Methos has met some aliens in his time...  
_

_Do you think Methos knows where Atlantis is? Or rather, where it was?_

Normally Methos is able to keep his desired commentary to himself during such meeting and take only banal amusement from his colleagues' conjecturing. However, this year he was not in the mood to hear of all the wonderful things that he was supposed to know and have done. He did not want to hear the hope in their voices as they rattled off all that he was purportedly able to tell them. Not this year.

He wasn't the Methos they wanted him to be. Oh no, far from it.

And he wasn't 'just a guy,' either.

That was Adam Pierson.

Methos was Death. Death on a horse. _You want my help with your religion? Try Revelations, 6:8. That was **me**!_

Methos sighed again and leaned against the countertop for support. Oh yes, he knew who he was. And it was more than just Death, mounted on a pale horse, bringing ugly end to whomever he met. People saw Death, and knew that their time had come. Sometimes they fought him, sometimes they were resigned, often they feared, but always, _always _they knew what to expect. Death brought death. It really was quite simple.

Death was gone for right now. Always a part of him, but buried, along with Methos's many other masks. Adam Pierson reigned now, the watcher, historian, and perpetual grad student currently owned the better half of Methos's soul. Adam Pierson, 'just a guy' who couldn't save Alexa. Adam Pierson, the watcher who couldn't save Darius or even attend his funeral. Adam Pierson, the Methos researcher who betrayed Jacob Galati to his death. Adam Pierson, just as good as Don Salzar, whom Kalas butchered for information. It took many a beer bottle to drown the irony.

It was also Adam Pierson whom Melvin Korin had held captive as he tried to locate Methos, or so Adam had told the watchers. Because it was Adam Pierson, who'd befriended Joe, who'd befriended MacLeod, and to whom he betrayed Methos's brothers. Adam Pierson condemned Kronos to die, and convinced Methos to kill Silas.

And it was Adam Pierson, friend of Dawson, who convinced Methos to stand aside and let MacLeod kill Byron. Adam Pierson, who preferred books and beer and baggy sweaters, quick with a joke, possessed of shy and captivating charm. Adam Pierson, mortal, watcher, researcher, your average guy, personally tailored to possess absolutely nothing special about him. Adam Pierson, observer of the game, even as the watchers played larger roles than they ought, who takes no heed as Methos's brothers and students fall. He is only a watcher, after all

Adam Pierson, Methos's best researcher, who knows him better than he knows himself.

Adam Pierson, figment of Methos's imagination.

The man in the stiff blue jeans, damp sweater, and uncomfortable sneakers let out a deep, shuddering sigh. He had many names, but none seemed to fit. Methos: Mythos: myth… he should have died in Bordeaux. Adam Pierson? Perhaps Methos killed him.

So where did that leave him now?

Five thousand years old, and without a name.

Though that wasn't entirely true. He did have a name. He'd had many names before Death--surely one of them would do. And he'd had many identities before Adam Pierson. One of them would suffice as well.

And Joe still sat, out there in the bar, wanting answers. Well, Methos could give him an answer.

He might even give him a name.


	6. Ch 5: Rocks, islands

Methos, still damp, miserable, and bone-numbingly tired, strode back into the bar with purpose. One thing. He could tell Joe one thing, and that one thing would get the watcher off his back. 

It wasn't that he didn't appreciate Joe's concern. Actually, he found it rather touching. It was just that there was no way he could tell the watcher the truth. He couldn't possibly explain the depths of what was troubling him tonight, for those troubles were five thousand years in the making. What he _could _do was give his friend a glimpse. Just a brief glimmer of the truth—or parts or it—to satisfy the man's curiosity and set some of his concerns to rest.

And so Methos strode intently from the kitchen, his slightly damp shoes making faint squishing sounds as he went. "Joe, I'll take that beer now," he announced as he reentered the bar.

Joe, who had been walking, from somewhere to somewhere else, was taken completely by surprise when Methos entered. He whirled around at the sound of the immortal's reentry, or at least he tried to, for a man with two prosthetic legs cannot exactly 'whirl.' What was worse, he was standing in the puddle that Methos had left from earlier. The one by the door from when he had first returned.

The one that Methos had sworn to clean up.

The one that staged Joe's parody of a pirouette, wherein he crumbled—flailing—to the floor.

Methos could only watch as he inadvertently startled the watcher, who wasn't as light and quick on his feet as his sense-memory liked to believe, whose prosthetic limbs made it impossible for him to regain balance once it was lost. Methos could do nothing as Joe flailed his arms mid turn when he realized his mistake ,as his upper body went one way and his lower body went another. A loud clang when Joe's cane found the floor, and a sickening crack when the watcher's head found the back of the nearest booth.

A heartbeat's pause and Methos was scrambling to Joe's side. He'd been a doctor off and on for more years than he cared to think about down through the ages, and it was comfortingly easy to fall back into the role now. As such, well-trained eyes noted the steady rise and fall of the watcher's chest as he dropped to his knees. Relived that Joe was simply unconscious, he ran gently impatient fingers through the watcher's hair until he found wound. There was a sizable lump forming at the back of Joe's head, and it was bleeding with the common alacrity of head wounds. From there, Methos's fingers wandered down to the base of Joe's skull before ensuring—as well as they could—that he hadn't sustained any neck injuries. Satisfied that his biggest worry was that crack to the head, the immortal hurried over to the bar and grabbed the paper towels. The first thing he needed to do was stop the bleeding.

Methos secured the make-shirt pressure bandage with one hand and took Joe's carotid pulse with the other, finding it strong and stead if a bit fast. From there he did his best to assess the rest of his friend's condition. Joe didn't appear to have broken anything else in his fall, though Methos assumed that his thighs were going to royally protest the shearing caused by his prostheses' lost battle with gravity. Methos knew that it was common practice not to move fall victims unless their lives depended on it, but he also knew that at most Joe would be suffering from a mild concussion. After all, he'd considered himself a student of medicine ever since the Ancient had taught him which herbs could be used to reduce the fevers brought on by their scorching desert sun.

_Don't think about that now_, he chided himself, as he tried to see if the bleeding had lessened any. It had, but it hadn't completely stopped. However, it had lessened enough for him to chance leaving the bandage for a second. With a shake of his head and a rueful chuckle, he attempted to discern the best way to relieve the watcher of his prostheses.

The solution, he discovered, wasn't one Joe was going to like. There was nothing for it though because Methos couldn't carry him into the office—and to the couch therein—with their dead weight throwing off his balance. And besides, after the fall Joe just took, the prostheses themselves might be damaged anyway.

Several minutes later Joe was bereft of his prostheses—by way of his pants. Methos was just replacing that garment now, knowing from experience that the bar was quite chilly when one was only half decent. Thankfully Joe hadn't stirred during the ordeal, or the entire process might have been made a lot more complicated.

Now the watcher was ready for transport. Methos stood with a groan (his pants were wet, again, from the puddle he still hadn't cleaned up) and made his way to the office, opening the door and making sure that nothing was in the way. That being done, he made his way back to the still-unconscious watcher. Then, after muttering several choice words about Joe being in need of a diet, he hoisted the watcher into a sitting position. From there, he grabbed him from the under arms and then shifted the weight onto his hip the way one would support a child (the absence of Joe's legs making this possible). A few more choice words in several languages later, and Joe was lying down on the couch in his office. Methos reinforced the paper towel bandage—which had been jostled and nearly fallen off—with tissues and scotch tape for security (five thousand years also teaches one to improvise). He covered Joe with the watcher's own coat, which had been draped on the back of his chair. Alas, Methos was certain that his own coat was still wet.

Now that Joe was settled comfortably, Methos grabbed the office phone, intent on dialing emergency. That's when he discovered, much to his dismay, that the storm had knocked out the phone lines. Another litany of multi-lingual cursing later and Methos had to resign himself to his fate. He checked the unconscious watcher over once more, not envying him the headache he would have when he came around.

There was only one thing left to do. Methos returned to the bar and grabbed several bottles of beer. He brought these into the office and grabbed a seat in the chair to wait for Joe to wake up.

He had to wait for a bit longer than he would have liked, but meanwhile Joe's heart rate and breathing remained strong and the bleeding had stopped. The cut wasn't very deep, but it was long as Joe's head had scraped against the booth on the way down. Methos was glad for its shallowness. He had nothing to stitch with here, and hospitals usually don't stitch wounds after ten hours. From the looks of the weather outside, Methos highly doubted that he'd be getting Joe to the ER in that time frame. Especially if they didn't fix the phones, which at last check, were still down.

It was approaching the three hour mark when Joe finally stirred. Methos was at his side in an instant, kneeling by the couch. Joe's eyes slowly returned to focus, bringing Methos's face into view.

"Did we have a pleasant nap?" the immortal quipped as he finished checking Joe's pulse once more.

Joe moaned. "What hit me?"

"A booth," Methos answered matter-of-factly as he moved to once again check the watcher's head wound. Joe winced. "Or more exactly, you hit it, when you fell. Gave yourself a lovely gash back here."

"Am I bleeding?"

"Not anymore."

"Well, that's comforting," Joe said sarcastically as he tried to sit up. Methos's surprisingly gentle hands on his shoulders stopped him.

"I wouldn't be going anywhere just yet if I were you," the immortal advised.

Joe shot the immortal a glare and tried again, this time unhindered. He made it halfway into a sitting position before the room suddenly swam and bright lights danced across his vision. He grabbed the back of the couch for support and felt Methos ease him back down again.

"Can't say I didn't warn you," he said smugly.

Joe would have glared again had he deemed it safe to open his eyes just yet. "What I ever do to piss off a booth?" he groaned out instead.

"Forgetting to insist that your guests clean up their puddles might be one thing," Methos admitted, chagrined.

Joe opened one eye and fixed a curious expression on the immortal.

"You slipped in the water I tracked in from outside."

Joe groaned again. "Graceful," he admonished himself with a slight laugh.

Methos remained silent. Even slightly concussed, Joe could deduce fairly easily that the old man felt guilty.

"So how bad's the damage?" he asked, momentarily forgetting himself and trying to sit up again. That's when he noticed. "My legs—"

"Just relax," Methos's strong yet surprisingly gentle hands once again forced Joe to lie back down. "I couldn't get you out of that puddle and keep the pressure on your head wound by myself with your prostheses just hanging off you," he explained candidly. "Not to mention how awkward it would have made getting you all nice and comfy here on the couch."

Joe scowled, but nodded slightly in understanding. "Where are they?"

"I left them back by the bar," Methos admitted, now feeling slightly guilty for not having brought them inside the office. After all, it's not like he hadn't have the time…

"Are they okay?"

"I think so. Do you want them?"

Joe nodded. Without another word, or even so much as a change of expression, Methos left the office. He returned a few moments later carrying the familiar objects, which he placed by the couch. Joe made to sit up again, but Methos shot him an amused glance that almost dared the watcher to try it, and so he thought better of it.

"When the elephants stop dancing on my brain it will occur to me to be embarrassed," he said, closing his eyes in resignation.

Methos chuckled. "Are they pink?"

"Funny."

Then the smile fell from Methos's face. "You gave yourself a lovely gash, which thankfully isn't deep enough to need stitches, though it bled like a sonofabitch for a while. Even still, I'm betting you have a concussion."

"Was that supposed to make me feel better?" Joe asked, looking skeptically up at the immortal standing over him.

"I'm just saying that I could have been worse."

Joe sighed. "Yeah, and since it wasn't I get to feel embarrassed."

"Embarrassed by what? By the fact that you slipped and fell in your own bar, or by the fact that your underwear has little green frogs all over it?" The latter part of the question he finished with a devilish grin that made Joe blush crimson.

"They were a gag gift from an old girlfriend."

"She must have been your high school sweat heart, judging from the amount of wear and tear."

Joe's blush deepened, if that was possible. "Can we leave my underwear out of this discussion? Please?"

"You got to see me parade around topless all evening Joe," Methos reminded him. "The ten minutes it took for me to get you out of your jeans, figure out how to get those contraptions off without breaking them, and put your jeans back on, hardly seems like restitution to me."

Joe was about to protest but then he remembered their conversations, or rather, everything that the immortal didn't say, that his body said for him, that he wound up being privy to, just because Methos was bereft of his concealing sweater. Joe deemed the immortal to be correct: being seen in his boxers for ten minutes hardly makes them even for the evening compared to what Methos has endured. "You're right," he agreed with quiet feeling.

Methos bit his lip, suddenly uncomfortable. "I'm getting another beer."

While he was behind the bar, Methos picked up the phone again on a whim and was surprised to hear a dial tone. Thankful that his luck was finally changing for the better, he dialed 911. Joe's condition wasn't life threatening, but he really should get checked out by professionals… or at least, current professionals and all their newfangled equipment, and an ambulance was the only way Joe was going to get there in any semblance of time. However, Methos was told that, all these things considered along with the conditions of the roads, it might be quite a while before any rescue personal could get to them.

That done, Methos fetched a beer and a sizeable glass of water for Joe and headed back into the office, fully prepared to hurry up and wait.

"What took so long?" Joe asked as he took the proffered water. "Couldn't decide which particular flavor of beer you wanted?"

"Funny," Methos scoffed, mock-indignant. "The weather has lessened some, but it doesn't look like they've plowed yet. The phones are back though."

Joe blinked. "We lost phones?"

"While you were out."

"And how long was that?"

"About three hours, give or take."

"My grandmother always said I had a hard head..." Joe mused around a small shrug. It earned a modest chuckle from the immortal.

"Yeah, well, you should be thankful for it."

Joe grinned, raising his glass in a lazy salute. "I'll drink to that."

Until that moment, Joe had been lying flat on his back on the couch, aside from his ill-fated attempts at sitting up. Thus he tried to simply tilt his head forward to allow the proper angle to drink his water, but all he succeeded in doing was spilling it down his front. Methos was only partially successful in smothering his laughter.

"I'll bet this is very funny to you," Joe grumped, one hand swiping errant water droplets out of his beard. "Go on, laugh at the cripple trying to take a drink!" As an attempt at self-deprecating humor, the joke failed miserably. The laughter died instantly, replaced by awkward silence.

"I wasn't—"

"No," Joe waved off whatever apologies Methos was going to make. "Gallows humor. My fault. Why don't you help me sit up so I can drink instead of bathe?"

Methos glided into Joe's field of vision and took the glass away from him, setting it on the desk. His expression was closed off, lips pursed into a slight frown. "Take a few deep breaths," he directed, and Joe recognized that look now for what it was—quiet, deliberate concentration. He'd seen the immortal survey chessboards in much the same fashion. He remembered that Methos had been a doctor once, and so had no problems obliging the request.

"Good. Now, you're going to sit up, slowly, on three. One… Two… Three…"

Joe once more tried to sit, but once again felt the world tilt violently, though admittedly, not as violently. However, instead of crashing back into the couch, he found himself continuing to rise.

"Hey, don't make me do all the work!"

Joe realized that Methos had slipped behind him and was supporting his shoulders. He shut his eyes and forced his muscles to respond, lifting his weight up off of Methos's hands. Before he knew it, he was sitting up.

"Take a few more deep breaths," Methos directed, "and open your eyes."

Joe did as he was told. Surprisingly the world stayed in place. "How about that…"

"How 'bout what? You of all people should know I'm no slouch when it comes to this stuff."

"Yeah, my shoulder remembers vividly."

Methos merely shrugged.

Actually now that Joe thought about it, the immortal _had _removed the bullet, in secret, with only simple tools, a couple of so-called medicinal plants, and a lot of bandages. What's more, he retained full use and mobility of that arm, and there was no blood poisoning, no infection… nothing remotely life threatening aside from perhaps the loss of blood, and that part they couldn't do anything about. For all of his griping and complaining, and well, being the worst patient he could possibly be, for what had happened he realized that he couldn't possibly have received any better care under the circumstances.

Joe was brought out of his thoughts by Methos offering him the water, which he took gratefully. Unfortunately, he'd only managed a few sips before it was suddenly taken away again. Startled, Joe made an ineffectual grab for it, missed, and groused: "what was that for?"

"Head wounds have the nasty little trick of getting your stomach to hate you, as well," Methos explained. "See how that settles, first."

Joe groaned. "You mean I get to be sick, too?"

Methos shrugged. "Hope not."

"Yeah, you and me both."

Joe just sat there, focusing on what his stomach was doing, which, so far, was thankfully nothing. Methos was behind him and out of sight, half-seated on the armrest of the couch with one leg on the floor. He was close enough to react if need be, but far enough away so that Joe was sitting up unaided, balanced on his tail bone on the couch cushion as he had taught himself to do since losing his legs in 'Nam.

"You're pretty good at this doctoring shit," Joe offered at last, breaking the comfortable silence. He heard Methos snort a laugh.

"I've had many years to practice."

Joe shifted slightly in his seat. The obvious question hovered like the elephant in the room—was that penance for his time spent with the horsemen? It made him fidgety, but its circumspect propriety stayed his tongue. "_How many_ years?" he asked instead, and he heard Methos laugh again.

"I've spent many immortal lifetimes as a healer, Joseph," came the answer, and Joe knew Methos was serious when he called you by your full name, but that didn't answer the question that Joe hadn't asked.

"Back in the good old days of leeches and blood-letting?"

Methos let out a wry chuckle. "_Looong_ before then."

"You know, a lot of immortals become doctors," Joe mused, taking a chance. "Grace Chandall, for one, or Sean Burns. They wanted to use their immortality to help people."

Methos closed his eyes, tensing briefly in memory of Sean. Mercifully, Joe was oblivious.

"A lot of us also go into law enforcement, or some other equally dangerous field. Then there are those like Marcus Constantine, who try and keep the past alive so that mortals don't repeat their mistakes down through the millennia. There are many ways immortals choose to help mankind, Joe. Medicine is just one of them."

"True," Joe conceded. "So you said you've spent lifetimes doing this? Any that the watchers may have on file, by any chance?"

The immortal tipped his head, the barest of nods. "Perhaps."

Joe waited, but his patience in the ensuing silence was short-lived. "_Well?_"

Methos sighed, and remembered his promise to himself. "Most recently I was Dr. Benjamin Adams."

Joe racked his brain over the name. "Sorry, doesn't ring any bells."

"Well I can't help that, Joe," Methos said with a laugh. "But I'm sure you're making a mental note to look it up later, anyway."

"Were you boring or something?"

Methos shrugged. "See for yourself."

Joe was struck by a sudden thought. "Byron called you 'Doc.'"

"That he did," Methos admitted, his voice now darkened by memory. "I was Adams when I taught Byron."

"So _you _were Byron's teacher."

"You mean you didn't know?"

"Not for certain. I mean, it's not like you tell us these things."

Methos was silent for a time. "I wasn't his first teacher," he admitted at last. "He was found by a headhunter named Lurke. Lurke thought Adams would be an easy target."

"And you convinced him otherwise," Joe concluded.

"Turns out the bastard left a half-trained student," Methos's voice dropped again, turned dark and cold, but the effect was ruined by a sigh. "I was planning on killing him, but… he intrigued me."

"Oh?"

"Have you ever read his poetry, Joseph? Gordon was… He lived so well—_loved_ so well. You could see it in his eyes! And, he was just a boy."

Joe wished he could Methos's face just then. Even if he turned, he couldn't manage it. He had to settle for pulling the expressions out of the immortal with words. "You couldn't kill him?"

"I didn't want his quickening," Methos answered readily, the finality in his tone highlighting the difference between Joe's assumption and reality. In the thickening silence Joe had room to guess that this was what had been plaguing Methos all evening: thoughts of Byron.

Of course, he was only in a small way partially correct.

"So you took him as a student, instead?"

Methos didn't answer right away, instead taking time to weigh just how to explain himself. "Well, I couldn't kill him, and I didn't have any friends in the area, if you know what I mean. And… for some reason, I don't think he was well suited to a cloistered life." Joe heard the shrug in the immortal's voice there at the end.

"So for lack of something better to do with him—"

"Pretty much."

"I see."

Silence once more, the awkwardness of not knowing what to say. Joe was, well, delighted wasn't the best word for it, but he was glad that Methos was finally talking about this. It can't be easy to lose a student, especially to a friend. A friend with whom you've had some bad blood recently. Again, all he could do was talk.

"So, he became your student?"

"In a sense." Joe heard Methos sigh, as though he were trying to string the words together in his mind. "He was a poet—didn't much care for swordplay. And, for some reason, I believed him when he said he could talk his way out of just about any challenge."

There was a palpable sadness to that sentence. Joe could sense that Methos was no doubt grateful that he was shielded from view. "You didn't train him?" he asked in disbelief.

"We sparred on occasion," Methos admitted, "whenever the mood struck. And he wasn't bad, just not… good enough that I would have felt comfortable leaving him to his own devices. And he had that clubfoot..." Methos's voice trailed off, a study in enforced nonchalance.

"Why do I get the feeling that Adams had rather high standards for that sort of thing?" Joe asked, not knowing if the third person would help.

Methos shrugged behind him. "Oh, you'd be surprised, Joe. You'd be surprised."

Joe couldn't help it; he turned part way around at that statement. Methos was slouching, and the watcher caught half a glimpse of the immortal's face. The weariness was back, as though all five thousand years were pressing on his shoulders, stooping them low.

"Then tell me," he urged, quietly, earnest in his concern. Even still, he was considerably shocked when Methos deigned to take him up on the offer.

"Gordon was interested in living," the immortal admitted. "He had a passion for life. 'Carpe Diem' was not lost on him." Then came a heavy sigh. "But, he was still young then. And… naïve."

"And you?" Joe prompted, not wanting the immortal to let go of this.

"Me?" Methos shrugged, his voice all innocence. "Well, let's just say… I was everything Gordon wasn't."

That sat Joe up straight. "Oh?"

"I spent most of my time tending to the sick and dying that couldn't afford treatment, and drowning my sorrows in the bottom of a bottle. If you think I drink a lot now, you should have seen me back then."

"Weeping for the state of the world?"

"Oh, nothing so melodramatic," the immortal scoffed. "More like weeping for myself. For the… losses."

Silence fell again, and Joe was left wonder what Methos had almost said.

"And _that's_ the immortal that took on Byron?" Joe found had to force the lightness of humored disbelief into his tone, and was rewarded with a slight laugh.

"In a way, I guess he was what I needed."

"Someone to look after?"

"Someone with snappy comebacks for all of my piteous wallowings."

"Ah."

More silence, more comfortable this time, as Methos collected his thoughts. The immortal could tell that Joe really wanted to hear this, and he, for some reason, really wanted to tell someone. And it made the wait for the ambulance go by faster, besides.

"And so I took him under the proverbial wing," Methos confessed, matter-of-fact. "I taught him how to survive as an immortal—and I don't mean just with swords, and he, well, _he_ was bound and determined to lighten my outlook on life. So to speak."

"No easy task," Joe commiserated, and Methos obliged him with a laugh.

"He was an obnoxious ray of sunshine in my life for a few decades, and in turn, I was his gloomy little rain cloud."

This time Joe laughed outright, and the laughter made him bold. "Why on earth did he put up with you?"

"Because I kept him alive," Methos answered seriously and without missing a beat, and once again Joe could hear the immortal's age in his voice. "And besides," he added, his tone immediately lightening, "he was gratified by the challenge."

"Wanted to see if he could win you over to his happy-go-lucky ways, eh?"

"Well, I wouldn't call him happy-go-lucky, per se," Methos protested. "And besides, he never really stood a chance at that anyway." His voice fell off again, now down weighted down by memory.

Joe wasn't about to let him stay there. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

Methos sighed, drew it out into a hiss, stalling for time "You remember how he was, Joe. You met the man the Highlander killed. That was not the man I… knew... back then."

Joe took a moment to consider this. When MacLeod killed Byron, the poet was simply a thrill seeker who thought that the secrets to life could be found only in death. He vaguely remembered reading things about death and barriers and life and love and desire, but he was way out of his league with this one. "I remember," he said at last.

"He wasn't always like that," Methos informed him.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, remember how I said that he wanted to live? There was a time when that didn't mean drugs or death-defying stunts. His life was poetry. He lived through his art, and his art followed the patterns of his life. Back when his life—meant something… that was truly a beautiful thing to witness. That man I saw on stage, the one MacLeod killed… _His _art, _his _life…" The immortal's words failed him then, dried up right in his throat and left a bad taste in his mouth.

"So what happened?" Joe asked after a brief, respectful pause.

"What do you think?" Methos scathed, though his voice lacked any real heat. He sounded more resigned than anything else. "Decades of seeing me see to sick, years upon years of mortals dying, and seeing how the poor live their lives, and of how the rich—his precious aristocracy—treated them." Methos laughed then, harsh and bitter, half-choked on unshed tears. "A few so-called 'progressive thinkers' write a few books and his entire era crumbles down around him. Throw in a world war or two, and of course, those lovely decades of my cynical and survivalist anecdotes from my long and checkered history—" Methos bit off the end of his tirade, and Joe winced. Never in a million years did he think the immortal would take his ill-thought words to heart. That's generally how he found the freedom to speak them.

"The Watcher Records are littered with the files of immortals that didn't react well to the changes of the world," Joe offered at length, hoping he could trip the immortal's thoughts away from the personal, pull the conversation back into the abstract.

It worked.

"So very few immortals truly have the stomach for immortality," Methos conceded. Then suddenly he laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"Did you know he stopped celebrating his birthday?"

"You're kidding. You mean after he became immortal?"

Methos nodded. "At some point he scrapped the idea of celebrating birthdays and began celebrating his 'death day'—the anniversary of the day he died the first time."

"Well, that's a new one for the files."

"Not really," Methos countered. "Truth is, if I remembered either date, I might have chosen something similar at various points in my life. Like what to put on my driver's license, for instance."

Joe chuckled at that. "What date did you choose, then?"

"Surely you remember Adam Pierson's birthday?" Methos almost managed to sound insulted.

Joe rolled his eyes at that. "I meant, what's its significance?"

"It was printed on the birth certificate I stole."

"Ah." A brief, thoughtful silence. Then: "Why would immortals do that? Celebrate death days, I mean." Joe had a few fairly good guesses, but he wanted to hear Methos's version. After all, he was supposed to be helping the old man talk about Byron.

He heard Methos shrug again behind him.

"Think about it, Joe," Methos pressed in Adam Pierson's dulcet tones, grad student and lecturer. "When we become immortal, everything we know—everything we were—it's all gone. Eventually we learn that we might not even have been born at all, depending on whose version of immortal origins you buy into."

Joe nodded. "The Foundling Theories."

"Exactly! We have our lives ripped out from underneath us… some arguably more painfully than others. Then, well, the game, the gathering, taking heads, living on the fringes of societies and moving often to hide the fact that we don't injure or age, watching loved ones die—of old age if were lucky. Never having children… We see the times change, Joseph. Civilizations rise and fall, languages evolve and even die, but the people—the human race, if you will, and immortals included—we all remain the same. And some, like Byron, they go on living, safe on the little oases they've constructed in the midst of the sands of time, and pretending they're impervious to the point of practically believing it themselves."

"I am a rock, I am an island," said Joe quietly, quoting, and Methos laughed sadly. Yes, there was definitely sadness in that laugh. But there was also something more, something else that Joe couldn't quite place.

"Indeed," Methos agreed. "Unfortunately, it never actually works that way. We are never as impregnable as we like to pretend to be… or even as we have convinced ourselves that we are. Every immortal realizes this, sooner or later."

"And they become like Byron?" Joe didn't believe that, not for a second. He was Duncan MacLeod's watcher—he _couldn't_ believe it.

"Some do," Methos retracted, as though he recognized Joe's patented disbelief for what it truly was, knew what riding beneath it. "Take Gregor Powers, for example. He managed to adapt before the paradigm shift got the chance to kill him." Methos paused a moment, frowning. "That isn't to say that it was an easy feat for him."

Joe had to shake his head. Gregor, right around when MacLeod had finally been able to get through to him, was disturbingly similar to the way Bryon had been, right around when MacLeod killed him. If he were to take a serious look at the chronicles, Joe was certain that there would be many more immortals with similar behavior patterns.

"That's what Sean Burns did for you immortals," Joe he suddenly, voice rising in epiphany and taking Methos by surprise. MacLeod had sent Gregor off to Sean.

"In a manner of speaking," Methos admitted after considerable pause. Thoughts of Sean were still raw, the wounds just barely starting to heal.

"So Byron couldn't handle the march of progress?" Joe asked evenly, torn between wanting to lighten the mood and knowing how blasphemous such a thing might be to the immortal.

"I wouldn't exactly call the Victorian Age 'progressive'," Methos hedged, failing miserably at not smiling, and Joe laughed in genuine amusement. "But yeah. After the end old Victoria's reign, I really thought that he was going to be alright. I insisted that he join me in the States." Here he signed again. "Strasbourg killed him, I think. He never came to meet me."

Joe let the silence descend, allowing Methos—and Byron—the respect of it.

"Was that before or after he started celebrating death days?" he asked at last.

"I'm not sure," Methos admitted. "I saw him again in London, 1947. He worked for city then, helping them rebuild after the Blitz. I'd only just arrived, but that night, he invited me to his death day party. That's when I knew."

"Knew what?" Joe had a sneaking suspicion that there was more to it than just Byron's preference for his death day over his birthday.

"That he was lost to me." Methos's voice was soft, as though the admission had been ripped out of him and left him hemorrhaging inside.

"What do you mean?"

For all of that, the immortal's tone now was surprisingly blunt. "He was no longer the Byron I knew. Oh he had his talents, still, and his face… and his memories and his charm… but the spark was gone… the light. That immortal MacLeod killed? I don't know who he was. He only reminded me of someone I once knew."

The familiarity of that sentiment set Joe's head spinning, and the laugh escaped without his permission.

"What's so funny?" Methos asked, defensive.

"I wonder if you and MacLeod have any idea how similar you two really are."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You must remember how he brooded after killing Ingrid?"

Methos had to contemplate momentarily before it dawned on him. _The Ingrid I knew I'll never forget. That woman you killed? I don't know who she was. _He laughed at the audacity of it.

"I can't believe you're comparing me to MacLeod!"

"Why not?"

"Firstly, I don't brood." Methos enumerated the point with an aggressive flick of his index finger. He realized how stupid the claim was as soon as he'd made it, but didn't dare rescind it. "And second…" That pointing finger stood down, the immortal's hand drifting as he groped for words. "Second, Ingrid was still alive when MacLeod killed her. She was a cold-blooded killer, yes, but she had passion still. She awoke each morning with the fight still in her eyes, and that's what Duncan extinguished, and that's what he had trouble swallowing. Gordon? Gordon was long dead before I let MacLeod take his head."

"You _let _MacLeod take his head?" Joe could not let that slip go unnoticed. In fact, it was something of an expected admission. He craned his neck around to try and get a better view of Methos, and he could have sworn the immortal had gone rigid beneath the now-dry sweater. Under Joe's gaze, Methos dropped his head in a heavy sigh. When he looked up again, his expression was unreadable.

"I've stood between challengers before, Joseph," he said gravely. "I've even taken heads over them, as you well know."

Joe figured that Methos was referring to Kristen, or Keane, but there was another truth there, too. One he would bet had also been eating at Methos recently. "You mean like Silas?" Joe knew he was heading out on a very shaky limb, mentioning the Horsemen so directly, especially since his previous M.O. had been more along the lines of 'don't ask, don't tell.'

Methos, for his part, looked like he'd just been pole-axed, before the shock bled out into rigid silence and his eyes flashed hot with betrayal. Then he leaned back, slow and deliberate, an exercise in maintaining control. "Don't go there," he warned, his voice tight and low, and Joe suspected it wasn't all for show. He'd seen Methos do 'intimidating' before, go cold and scathing, let his presence expand to fill a room until you're all but choking on it. This here lacked the feel of it; there was too much raw need in there, undermining the immortal's motives.

Joe was prepared to take a lot on faith. Mostly that Methos was his friend but also that these things needed to be said. They were eating at the old man, gnawing at his defenses until they were full of holes that rode just below the masks. He'd seen Methos upset before; hell, he'd seen him devastated beyond the limits of emotion, but he'd never seen him _vulnerable_. Not like this, like he had somehow wandered into foreign territory and didn't know how to find his way back—didn't even know how to ask for directions. And that scared Joe, shook him deep for reasons he didn't want to explore. He'd had enough self-awareness for one night, thank you very much. Now, it was Methos's turn.

"But you were right," he said, after entirely too short a pause. Tossed it off with feigned glibness and a casual head shake that went a long ways at hiding his nerves because he didn't know how much he could push before Methos pushed back. "You really are nothing like MacLeod. After all, you haven't felt guilty since the eleventh century."

Methos let go a laugh, sudden and shocking, and Joe strained to hold the immortal in his peripheral vision. He saw Methos bring a hand up, brittle fingers scrubbing hard at his temple before scraping across his face, thumb and forefinger pressing into his eyes for a moment before his palm flatted out to shield the top half of his face. More laughter dribbled out, a harsh, breathless staccato that expanded to cover the tension that stole over the immortal like a storm tide.

Joe saw this, and almost felt guilty for how that tension had to break, but he rationed that Methos needed this. The old man had bought into his own press too long, convinced himself he wasn't human. He needed a wakeup call, and Joe found himself in position to deliver. Lucky him. He hoped to God he was doing the right thing here, started to doubt it the longer Methos sat there holding tight to his control, choking on his emotions like a martyr, afraid to let them go. 

In for a penny, Joe figured, and reached out a hand, rested it tentatively on the immortal's arm. "Methos—"

But Methos's free hand uncoiled, reared up like a striking cobra and clamped down like iron atop Joe's fingers, and Joe let him hang on, even as his own hand began to throb in muted protest. And he watched as Methos's shoulders silently shook, his face still buried in that one hand while the other held on for all he was worth. He watched as all that tension bled out at last, behind that hand and into that bruising grip. He watched until his sense of decorum overcame the need, and then he turned away.


	7. Ch 6: Falling stars

At last Methos seemed to relax. He slouched bonelessly, releasing Joe's fingers at last so that he could scrub his face with both hands. Joe gave him a moment to collect himself before breaking the silence.

"Methos?"

"What do you want me to say, Joe?" Methos asked, exhausted, resigned, but perhaps a bit farther back from the edge than he had been. "Yes, I killed Silas. Lopped off his head to save MacLeod's precious witch."

"You killed him for Cassandra?" Joe blurted before he could help himself.

Methos sighed heavily. "What difference does it make? He's just as dead."

"Well it must make some difference, or else you wouldn't be avoiding the question."

"I see where you're trying to take this, Joe." Annoyance crept into Methos's voice as he closed himself off. "Am I supposed to admit that I killed him to prove to Cassandra, to MacLeod, and even to myself that I have changed? To prove that I am not like that anymore? Am I'm supposed to reason that it was because, since I had condemned Kronos to die, Silas would have killed me for my treachery and thus I preempted him in self-defense? Perhaps I just didn't want Cassandra to die, and killing Silas was the only way I knew of to prevent it from happening? Believe me, Joseph. I have spent more time than is probably healthy trying to come up with my reasons."

Joe snorted ruefully. "And you're telling me you don't brood?"

Methos shrugged, granted Joe the thinnest of smiles. "Well, maybe I do. A little. Comes from hanging around MacLeod I guess."

"So, what were your reasons?" Joe probed again, because he'd figured it out. He had to keep Methos talking. It was safer; the words defeated the demons, gave them names and stripped them of their power. To define a thing is to give it borders, give it shape, pull the infinity right out from under its feet. Confine it and it loses its power over you, the same way checking under the bed reduces monsters into sneakers and dirty clothes. Joe just needed to keep fishing and Methos just might keep right on biting, just might be able to save himself, back farther away from the abyss.

Or he just decide it wasn't worth it, and pitch you over the ledge instead.

"If I asked you right now why you shot James, what would you tell me?"

It didn't even occur to Joe that he could lie. "I guess I'd say that he needed to be stopped, and I was there, and I had a gun, so I stopped him."

There was absolutely no humor in Methos's smile. "Now, replace the word 'gun' with 'sword,' and there you go."

Joe blinked, stunned. "But, didn't we just prove that it can't be that simple?"

"It never is."

"But--"

"Look Joseph," Methos interrupted, his voice steeped in exhaustion. "I know what you're trying to do, and I appreciate it, I really do. But you can't help me with this."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not the same."

"You just said it was."

Methos sighed, exasperated. "The circumstances were similar, nothing more."

"I fail to see the difference." Joe was being difficult and he knew it, but he was also confused and more than a little angry at having his understanding belittled and his empathy dismissed.

"Do you play chess?"

"Excuse me?" And just like that, the anger derailed completely into curiosity. _What the hell?_

"The pieces sat in the same positions, nothing more. The players and the games were different. Pawn takes rook. Every player would have made the same choice, in that position. No matter what the rest of the game looked like."

Joe nodded slowly, thoughtful at Methos's analogy. He understood a bit better now, but he was still irritated at the immortal's arrogance. "While that's fascinating," he said at length, "I fail to see why you think that means I can't help you."

"Then let me make it simple for you," and there was new venom in Methos's voice. "Just because you shot and _failed to kill_ Horton, which, by the way, you are still gaining new insights on, that _does not mean_ that we have anything in common, nor does it give you the right to hold my hand and help me deal with it."

Joe sat back slightly, stung, but then anger burned the sting away and he sat up straighter, shoved some iron down his spine and infused his voice with steel. "Hey, for better or worse I helped MacLeod kill my brother-in-law, and you know what? We condemned him for crimes that I myself have committed--crimes that I was condemned for, too, and it's only by the grace of God that Mac got there at the exact right time and I made it out alive. You want another one? How about, despite it all I actually mourn his loss, and I spend a helluva lot of time looking back, Monday morning quarterbacking, trying to figure out where the fuck it all went wrong, because it wasn't always like that and how the _hell _did I miss how bad it'd gotten? Oh, and I'm fully aware of _exactly _how much sympathy Mac would offer me if I ever told him I felt this way about the deranged, psychopathic son of a bitch who killed Darius, but that son of a bitch just happened to be my brother--not by birth, but through marriage and the watchers. I said before that you could talk all you wanted about me and James by pretending it was you and Kronos, and you said that I was right. What's changed between now and then, hmm? I'm curious. But please, limit your responses to English this time."

When Joe wound down he found Methos gaping at him like _he_ was the one prone to mouth off in foreign languages. He was instantly reminded of the last time he got carried away at the immortal's expense and, suddenly both guilty and annoyed at that guilt, he sought a way to defuse some of his words. "Well, I suppose you could try French, but only if you speak it slowly."

That blindsided Methos into a laugh, though it sounded a bit unhinged, probably from the whiplash. Soon enough he reined it in, and Joe could almost hear the pieces snapping back into place in its wake. The immortal was starting to look more like himself, the armor realigning. He'd been suffering though rough patch jobs for far too long; those walls needed to collapse completely before he could rebuild in earnest, and once Joe realized it he pushed Methos into it and then pulled him out again on the other side. Now that the dust was settling he knew that Methos was better for it.

"You asked what's changed?" And Methos's voice was almost back to normal.

The watcher nodded.

"The stars," he said, and damned if he didn't realize the absurdity of it. "The stars have come out again." He sidestepped Joe's inevitable question by pointing to the window.

Confused as hell but willing to play along, the watcher glanced over through the slats of the Venetian blinds. The first thing he noticed--obviously--was that it had finally stopped snowing. Then, at Methos's silent prompting his gaze drifted up, and he saw that the clouds were rolling away, revealing a sky that was filled with countless twinkling lights. The storm had dampened the city lights enough for the lights of the heavens to make themselves known much brighter tonight than they normally would be. Joe allowed himself to be dazzled for a moment before backtracking.

"Can you see if they've plowed yet?"

Methos laughed as he got up to check. "The plow's at the other end of the street," he answered after a moment of peering out into the blackness.

"Finally," Joe signed in relief. Never in his life would he be so happy to leave the bar. "Now would you mind telling me what a change in the weather has to do with our conversation?"

Methos still stood before the window, his back to Joe. For all the watcher fell like a dirty old man for taking advantage of Methos's former shirtless state to gauge the immortal's moods, as the silence stretched between then he suddenly found himself missing the insights. He had no idea what thoughts were swimming in the old man's mind, but he could tell Methos was thinking, working out his answer to what should have been a simple question.

"Look, Joe, I didn't really help you. You already knew those things; you just needed to realize you knew them."

"And that's where you came in?" Joe had no problems delivering incredulous sarcasm to Methos's back. At least it got the immortal to turn around.

"Of course," and here he flashed a fallen cherubim smile. "Because I already realized I knew them, and could therefore talk to you about you and James all I wanted by pretending it was me and Kronos."

Joe blinked, opened his mouth to retort, shut it again. "You still haven't told me what any of this has to do with the weather," he protested weakly. After all, the old man was right. As usual.

Methos's response was to turn back around and yank the cord on the Venetian blinds, sending them skyward and revealing the window. The office wasn't very well lit, and the starlight streaming in washed them all in muted silver. "You can never see the stars from the cities anymore," Methos lamented. "It gets too bright at night."

Joe shrugged. "The price of the electric light."

Methos dipped his head slightly, conceding the point. "Though I think, if given a choice, I would rather have the stars."

That little admission brought Joe up short and sent both eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. "You could always live someplace a little less crowded."

Methos smiled, soft and warm and maybe just a little bit sad. "Where do you think I go when I disappear?"

Joe barked a startled laugh. "Well, I never would have guessed stargazing, that's for sure." And a comfortable silence fell between them, until Methos broke it.

"Were you ever a sailor, Joe?" He sounded like he already knew the answer.

"I've been on cruises, and Army transport ships in 'Nam. Even been deep sea fishing a few times. But other than that…" Joe left the words hanging, punctuated by a shrug and a negative headshake.

"You ever notice that the stars get brightest the farther you get from shore? It's almost like your sailing towards the heavens themselves."

Joe sighed silently and bit the inside of his lip, pondering his response. "Well, you're sailing farther and farther away from any other light sources," he offered at last. "It would make sense for the stars to seem brighter then."

Methos shook his head slightly, laughing to himself, before he abruptly yanked the cord again, shutting the blind. Once again Joe was taken completely by surprise, but he bit back his questions and simply waited. Methos had his back to him again, and once again Joe found himself wishing for some hint as to what the immortal was thinking.

"When I was younger," he said at last, a sigh effected in his voice. "Back when the world was flat, but before it was possible to fall off by sailing to far, before the deeps were filled with monsters--and even after that--we would build great ships and sail away, watching the stars grow brighter, hoping that on some far distant shore... we'd finally reach heaven."

All of Joe's instincts screamed at him to tread softly. "But I thought you said you hated the water?" It sounded lame even to his own ears, but at least it sounded safe.

Methos turned around then. He half-shrugged, defeated, and their eyes met. The weariness was back tenfold it seemed, and his eyes weren't gold or even green, but in the dim office light, backlit by a shunned sky of immutable stars, they appeared a murky midnight color so foreign-looking on Methos that Joe blinked hard to clear his vision.

When Joe opened his eyes, Methos had moved. He was now leaning back up against the window, rumpling the blinds. He had a slight smile on his face, but it seemed… sad almost. And the top of his face was concealed in shadow. Joe could no longer see his eyes.

But it didn't matter.

"Do you know what some ancient cultures used to say of snow?"

Methos's voice snapped Joe out of his reverie. "What?"

"They say it was a curse from the gods, sent to punish them because they held the stars too high in esteem."

"Oh that makes sense," Joe snarked before he could stop himself, and Methos laughed.

"Think about it," he said, glitteringly green-eyed Adam Pierson stepping forward to begin his lecture. "Snowflakes are shaped like stars, and they fall from the heavens. When they fall, you can't see the sun in the morning, or the stars at night. And, they can be deadly."

Joe did think about it, but after several moments he just shook his head. "Well after tonight, I think I'm beginning to agree with them about snow being a curse."

"Yeah, well, the Vikings would agree with you." At Joe's blank stare he elaborated, admonishing, "didn't you hear me? I said that at night, snowfall obscures the stars."

"Yeah, I heard you, but I don't follow."

"That's because you can't recall a time before the compass, when sailors navigated by the stars and lots of luck."

Joe's brow furrowed in thought before he finally caught on. "Oh, so they would get lost in snowstorms."

"Horribly lost," Methos verified. "Unable to navigate, blown miles off course, their ships most likely damaged…"

"Sound like fun." Then Joe was struck by a sudden thought: "were you ever a Viking?"

"Me?" Methos laughed, indicating himself in a gesture of innocence. "Never. But… I have been known to get horribly lost in snowstorms," he admitted ruefully.

"Oh?" Joe could tell that there must be some juicy stories lurking behind that comment.

Methos sighed tiredly. "It's not exactly a pleasant experience. Being out in the elements like that, you never feel prepared or protected enough. And it gets quiet, so quiet. Have you ever noticed the eerie quiet of a snowstorm—when you've stopped noticing the wind, I mean? Your own thoughts are loud by comparison. And it gets so cold, passed the point where you can't feel it anymore. You think to yourself that you have to keep moving, but after a while, you're so numb, and everything is so white, that you aren't even sure if you _are _anymore. And you're lost, Joe. Hopelessly lost, because when you look up, the lights of heaven have been replaced with falling stars. Million and billions of falling stars... " Methos's voice trailed off into silence, his eyes slipping shut as he shook with a faint shiver.

Joe could practically taste the subtext in the air, and he was positive there was more to that little tale than just a blizzard. "I'll, ah, take your word on that," Joe finally said, the words suddenly less important than the need to speak, to pull Methos back from wherever his memories had taken him. The immortal blinked, returning to himself at last, and the ghost of a smile danced across his lips in tacit reassurance..

A comfortable silence descended as once again Joe attempted to process all of the clues Methos had given him over the course of the evening. They all added up to something, or most likely, to many different yet related things. Joe was determined to somehow sort them out. After all, Methos was still being remarkably forthcoming with information tonight, and the more Joe knew about the old man, the more he would be able to help Methos to help himself, just as the immortal had sought to do for him.

Then the stillness was pierced by a siren, feint at first, but steadily growing louder. Methos heard it first, and turned to peer through the blinds again. "It's about bloody time," he murmured before turning around.

"What?" Joe asked, bewildered. Then he heard it too

"Put your coat on, Joe," Methos directed with a wide grin. "Your chariot approaches." With that, he strode purposely from the office, walked across the bar to the front door, and stepped outside into the cold. Joe's bewilderment instantly skipped across embarrassment and then settled into anger when he realized the implications.

A very short time later Methos reentered, leading two paramedics wheeling a gurney between them.

"I should have suspected when you mentioned checking the phone lines," Joe grumbled as the paramedics took positions at his right and left, shining penlights in his eyes and taking his vital signs. He met their questions with grunted, monosyllabic answers whilst shooting evil glares at Methos, who all the while stood in the office doorway, leaning against the door jam with an infuriatingly smug look on his face.

"You're probably right about the concussion," said one of the paramedics, addressing Methos for the first time. "They'll run a CT scan, just to be on the safe side."

"Of course," Methos agreed, nodding and sounding entirely too professional.

Joe abandoned his efforts to glare the immortal into submission. He darted an entreating glance between the paramedics. "You know, if one of you would just hand me my legs over there, I could just walk out of here."

"I'm sorry, sir. You might have damaged them when you fell."

"Well I didn't," Joe snapped. "And I should know!"

"Legally they can't let you Joe," Methos informed him, his smile only growing. "If they _are _damaged, you could hurt yourself, and then sue the hospital for their letting you."

"Oh for Christ's sake! I've had that pair for over ten years now. I think I can tell when they're working or not!" Joe was practically sitting up on the gurney now, despite the paramedics' attempts to get him to lie back down.

"But you hit your head," Methos pointed out, ever so smugly. "You might not be thinking straight, and as paramedics, they should be suspecting as much, and not let you."

Joe sighed in exasperation and collapsed back against the gurney. "You're finding far too much enjoyment in this," he groused to the ceiling.

"Oh, you know me," said Methos, his words saccharine sweet, "I love laughing at the pathetic weakness of mere mortals."

Joe found himself hastily biting his tongue against the perfect retort when he remembered their audience, who for their part were trying to bury their amusement in staunch professionalism as they began wheeling him out of the office and across the bar.

"Some of us 'mere mortals' would gladly have your head for comments like that," Joe drawled as they wheeled him passed Methos, who was busy holding the outside door open.

Methos just grinned innocently as Joe passed him by. "I'd like to see them try."

Joe arched an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"

Just then the paramedics lofted the gurney and slid it into the back of the ambulance. Joe's body jounced slightly, exposing his Watcher tattoo, and Methos sobered at the sight. It took Joe a moment's puzzlement to realize that his hands were in plain view, and he casually hid them beneath the thin blanket the paramedics draped over him. Methos shook his head and forced a smile.

"Hey, Adam?" Joe called out just as they were shutting the doors on him.

Methos none-too-gently forced his way into the back of the ambulance, leaving one leg hanging out of course, so that they couldn't shut him in as well. "Something else I can do for you?" His serious tone was belied by the merriment lingering in his bright green eyes.

"The best way to avoid getting lost alone in a blizzard is to avoid venturing out into them alone."

Methos blinked, startled to hear Joe reference their earlier conversation out here, now, in the cold aftermath of a storm.

Well, maybe not all that surprised. "I'll try to keep that in mind." The smile returned, a genuine one this time, and Joe returned it.

"You coming or not?" came the shout from the driver's seat.

Methos sighed dramatically, but something warm shone through his expression. He dropped a heavy hand onto Joe's shoulder, squeezed once before grinning again and jumping back out of the ambulance. He shut the doors and smacked them twice, signaling that the patient was ready for transport. The other paramedic met his eyes as he turned to leave, after he checked to make sure the doors were secure. Methos pinned him with a glare.

"Take good care of him.".

"It's what we do," the paramedic reassured with a tired smile. With this storm, they must have been busy all night.

Methos watched as he climbed in on the passenger's side, and stayed watching even as the ambulance pulled out onto the deserted street, lights flashing but no siren. Eventually it turned the corner, disappearing from view.

After a lingering pause, Methos returned to the bar for his jacket and his sword. After locking up, he decided to leave Joe's van where it was. After all, he hadn't asked permission to borrow it. He briefly debated calling a cab, but then decided against it. He wasn't in the mood to wait again.

He made sure his sword was firmly stored in its pocket, and drew his coat more tightly about his person. The garment was still damp, but he didn't much care. It had stopped snowing, and the faintest of breezes now pushed the high wispy clouds around the upper atmosphere, at times chancing to reveal a limitless sky riddled with numberless stars. The effect wouldn't last for long, of course. Slowly but surely--but then not slowly enough--the city would dig itself out from this surprise snowstorm and move on. But for now…

It wasn't such a long walk back to his apartment, he reasoned. He could manage it in an hour's time. Less than that if he hurried. But Methos wasn't in the mood to hurry. Not when he had the stars overhead once more, guiding him, protecting him. And there, in the western sky, dimmer than he remembered but still twinkling merrily sat the Mariner's Star, beacon for the lost to help guide their way home. The North Star had supplanted it in this day and age as the star of fortune, but Methos still remembered. He smiled as he pondered this, perhaps for the first time in a long while, and allowed that star to finally lead him home. 

-_fin-_


End file.
